A Crack in Everything
by darcyfarrow
Summary: "Regina draws my attention to Belle's hands—which are glowing. 'My gods, he's given her his magic.'" With help from Ruby and a reluctant Regina, and major sacrifices from Rumple, Archie tries to restore Belle's memory. This is a dark story, but its heart belongs to Rumbelle (with a little Red Cricket). Continuation of "How the Light Gets In." Rated M for language and violence.
1. Chapter 1

"_There is a crack, a crack in everything_

_That's how the light gets in"_

-Leonard Cohen, "Anthem"

**A/N. I had a couple of requests to continue my story "How the Light Gets In," so here we go. This part of the tale is quite different in tone from "Light" and it insists upon being told in the present tense, so it became a separate, but sister, story. To any psychologists or psychiatrists who might read this story, if I make any glaring errors, please let me know. Fortunately for me and my limited background in this field, there doesn't seem to be a standard practice for treating magically induced psychogenic amnesia!**

**Be forewarned: there's going to be some dark stuff here. Just the terror on Belle's face at the end of "The Outsider" makes it clear that whatever she was subjected to in the asylum, it had to be pretty awful, so Archie and Belle are going to have bring all that out into the light before they can treat it.**

* * *

Gods, I wish Regina were here.

I'd give her a piece of my mind for the way she screwed with the lives and minds of three hundred people, many of them now my patients for the first time, suffering with issues of identity and relationship and grief—and guilt, as they begin to come to terms with their pasts. Guilt serves a purpose, of course, but people seldom know how to handle it successfully: most deny it (Gold, I'm sure, falls into this category), but some flail themselves with it, rubbing into their bleeding wounds the salt of the pain they imagine their wrongdoing has caused others. They are often stunned, even dismayed, to find that imagined pain is so much greater than the actual pain the offended party really feels.

And then there are those who actually enjoy the pain they've caused others; in their quiet moments, these people like to take out the memories of the pain they've caused and relive them blow by blow. From the look on their faces as they remember their victims' agony and fear, you'd think they were browsing a scrapbook of family photographs. It doesn't matter if that pain was actual or imagined, as long as it hurt and hurt bad. Emotional vampires, they lap up the lifesblood of their victims. We label these people social psychopaths. Regina, like her mother, is one of them.

The easiest of my patients are those who actually think Regina's curse did them a favor, removing them from lives of poverty, degradation, fear, physical and emotional agony. Loneliness. Not so surprisingly to me, most of Storybrooke falls into this category—_I_ fall into this category. We don't deceive ourselves that Regina meant to be kind in the new lives she gave us; we know her too well for that. No, she simply didn't care enough about us to bother to devise "punishments" for us.

We who were, in effect, blessed by Regina's curse usually just need permission to feel happy, when all those around us are not; some of us (like me) need a little reassurance that we don't have to go back to our old selves. I hear the talk; I know the dwarves and some of the fairies feel a sense of obligation to return to the old land and restore it. I know they fear what will happen when the outside world discovers us—I have the same worries. But I won't go back, won't _ever_ go back. I love this world with its conveniences, its cleanliness, its healthfulness, its medicine, its science. With the knowledge and tools we have here, I can _change people's lives_.

And it's with that confidence that I take on my newest case: Belle. I don't know yet how I'll help her. Obviously traditional treatments won't work: the cause of her condition is neither physical nor emotional; it's magical. I don't know much about magic, but the world's leading expert in the field made it clear, by coming to me, that in this situation magic can't fix what it broke.

Which brings me to the other reason I wish Regina were here. I need to talk to her, to find out what she did to Belle. I need the details of her "conditioning" program: the drugs, the "script," the duration and frequency of the "treatments." Most importantly, I need to know who the hell did this.

The only thing I don't need to ask is why. I know why. It's the same as with Hook's attacks: it has nothing to do with Belle. It's the coward's way of attacking a more powerful and smarter enemy.

Before I do anything for Belle, I need to know what was done to her. When my day's appointments are concluded, I collect Pongo and hurry off to the jail; if anyone can find Regina, it's Emma.

"She's not here," David tells me. He looks angry, worried—fatherly—as he explains she and Henry have gone off with Gold. I allow him to vent; once he's gotten his frustrations out, he calms himself and asks if he can help me. I explain my mission and he agrees to begin searching for Regina ("I have a few questions for her myself," he admits). I give him my cell phone number, in case he finds Regina, and add, "If you ever want to talk. . . ." He needs me as much as anyone; he has not only his own problems to deal with, but everyone else's. He bears the weight of Storybrooke on his young shoulders. As does his wife—but she's been a weekly client of mine ever since David came out of his coma.

Pongo and I make our way to the hospital. I don't own a car: I find that walking everywhere is good not just for my health but for my business. Under the guise of petting Pongo, people will begin a casual conversation that evolves into a request for an appointment. It happens this afternoon as I enter the hospital: a custodian stops me to ask if I have room in my schedule for him. Turns out he's one of the Three Bears and he's experiencing some gender confusion—he's Mama Bear.

The orderlies and nurses all stop to pat Pongo's head as we make our way down the corridor to Belle's room. Pongo is a certified therapy dog and he's visited here often since the savior arrived and time began taking its toll on Storybrooke's residents. Most people assume Pongo is my pet, but he's my business partner. He's a gateway to conversation for patients who won't or can't reveal their pain to me; his instinct for knowing just when to nudge and when to back off is spot-on. I've seen amazing things happen with patients who allow a pet into their lives.

He's going to help Belle too. I realize this as soon as we step into the room and her face lights up because she sees Pongo. She pats her knee, inviting him forward, and as an afterthought she glances at me. She strokes Pongo's ears. "Hello, doggie." Doggie—she doesn't remember his name. As she smiles at me from the corner of her eye, it's clear she doesn't remember me either. I feel a stab of sadness, and then I imagine that multiplied a thousand times and I know what it must have been like for Gold.

But now I need to know what it's like for Belle. She's an optimist and a people person; those qualities will help us immensely as we begin our work. I can understand why she was first attracted to Rumplestiltskin and then again to Gold: she's driven to help people, and her open-heartedness makes her puzzle over people as complicated and closed (closed, but not completely shut down: he's proved that to me twice now) as he is. But why he brought her into his life that first time, I'd like to find out someday. Whatever the drive was—whether it was a sudden impulse or a long thought-out decision—it must have been a struggle. He had not only his own secretiveness to overcome, but also the Dark One's paranoia and misanthropy.

She looks up at me, waiting.

"That's Pongo," I begin, as though we're meeting for the first time. "I'm Archie Hopper." I watch for signs of recognition; when none come, I continue, "I'm a psychiatrist."

"What is that?" she asks pleasantly.

"May I?" I gesture to the chair beside her bed; when she nods, I seat myself. "It means I'm a medical doctor, but I specialize in treatment of the mind." I give her a lopsided smile. "I help people cope, Belle, and I'd like to help you."

"Cope? Like with lost memories?" She plays with the satin ribbon on her bathrobe. It's her own: Ruby brought her some things from her apartment. Wise Ruby: even though Belle doesn't recognize her own clothes, she relaxes in them.

"Yes. If it's all right with you, I'd like to try to help you recover your memory."

She closes her eyes as if suddenly tired and lies back on her pillows. "Yes. Thank you. Just—no drugs, okay?"

I recall the "treatment" I saw the "health care professionals" administer to her in the vision Gold showed me. I understand her aversion: whatever drug they shot her up with, it made her nearly catatonic and highly susceptible to suggestion. "No, no drugs. Just talk. And fresh air, walks in the park, nutritious food, and time."

"I'd like that," she sighs. "I've been poked and pilled ever since I got here. I'm tired of feeling fuzzy-headed and numb." She turns her head toward me and adds cautiously, "But I don't know if I can pay you. I mean, I might have money; I don't know."

"That's taken care of."

"All right then. Thanks." A small frown creases her forehead: she wants to ask who's paying but she's not sure she wants to hear the answer. "I'll be glad to get out of here. Go home, wherever home is. Ruby tells me I have an apartment above the library. It sounds perfect. All those books just a few steps away. I can't wait to get back to it."

"In another two or three days, Dr. Whale says. The tests show there's no physical damage"—not even a scar from the bullet wound. Why, I want to know, did Gold not use this great gift of his to help people? I understand why Rumplestiltskin didn't—the Dark One held him in thrall—but Gold, once he brought magic into Storybrooke, could have been doing so much good with it. It angers me that he kept it all to himself. "There's no physical damage, but your body did undergo a trauma, so Whale's taking extra precautions."

"Yeah, he told me." She stretches her legs. "But I feel so cramped in here. They let me walk in the halls, but—" she gestures to the window, so far away from her bed.

I take the hint and stand up, gathering Pongo's leash. "There's a meditation garden behind the hospital."

"What's a meditation garden?"

"You'll see." I go to the nightstand on the other side of her bed: I notice a book lying open there, _Pride and Prejudice_; I know that story, so it can be a conversation starter if I need one. I open the drawer and find a pair of slacks and a pullover sweater. At the bottom of the nightstand there's a pair of shoes. I set everything on Belle's lap. "Get dressed."

We grin at each other conspiratorially; she thinks I'm giving her permission to break a hospital rule. I turn my back as she dresses, and then offer her my arm as we stroll past the nurse's station, down the hall and out the back way.

She stops at the top of the stairs and breathes in deeply. When she steps down, she's walking more freely, swinging her free arm. It's late spring and the air is full of scents and sounds. We walk across the lawn and follow a little cinder path into the garden, where the buds are beginning to open. She pauses to admire the flowers. I discover she's a very tactile person, and I wonder again about Gold; at the same time that it makes him uncomfortable, it must provide him with something he's been lacking all his life, something everyone craves: human touch. I'm beginning to see why he let her in.

She identifies each plant to me; she says she loves to garden. My heart skips a beat at this: it's a crack in the curse, a small sign that she remembers her life in the Enchanted Forest, for she has no garden here, of course. I ask questions about the plants to encourage the memory to come, but I won't point out to her the significance of what she's revealing; it would make her nervous.

After she's rattled off the names—both Latin and common—of all the plants in this garden, she pauses. "Ruby says my father is a florist." I'll have to talk to Ruby soon; she and I and everyone else who visits Belle need to be on the same page. It will be too easy to send Belle into a tailspin by bombarding her with details from both her lives. It's confusing enough for an amnesia patient to deal with one life.

"Yes," I confirm.

"He lives in this town, she says. Why hasn't he come to see me?" Her lips quiver and I reach into my pocket for the mini-pack of tissues I always carry.

"I don't know." I won't lie to her. I'll be very careful about how much information I offer, but I'll never lie to her. "Do you want to see him?"

She gives a weak chuckle. "I don't know. I can't remember a thing about him. Do you know him?"

"Not well. But when you're ready to see him, I can go talk to him for you."

"Not yet," she says quickly. "I'm assuming we must not have had the best relationship, or else he'd have been here by now." Her powers of deductive reasoning are impressive. I'll introduce her to Sherlock Holmes novels soon; they will help her exercise her mind.

"What's his name, doctor?" she blurts.

"Moe French."

She scowls. "No, that's not right."

"Maurice. 'Moe' is a. . . nickname." She's not ready yet to hear her father used to be a duke and she, a duchess.

"No," she's still scowling. "Not my father's name." She walks over to the bench beneath the rose-covered trellis and sits down, her hands on her knees. She's trying to concentrate. "There's a man who keeps coming to see me. He seems to have a knack for coming when I'm asleep; I think he gets a kick out of startling me awake. He's about five foot eight, maybe fifty years old, longish grayish-brown hair."

I sit down beside her and Pongo lays his head in her lap. "That's Mr. Gold."

She tries the name out, rolling it around in her mouth like a sip of new wine. "Mr. Gold. Mr. Gold. Ye-e-e-es. . . what's his first name?"

"I, uh, I don't know." If I say 'Rumplestiltskin' that will open a can of worms. "I've known him thirty years and he's never mentioned it. I suspect he doesn't have one."

"He does," she says confidently. "He creeps me out. Why does he keep coming?"

"He won't be coming back. He left town."

She slumps against the bench; the news has given her no relief.

"Why does he creep you out?"

"He's so intense, so insistent." She shudders. "He keeps on about"—she casts a hesitant glance at me, as if she thinks I won't believe her—"magic."

Oh no, I won't go there. Not for a long time yet. "Does he look familiar to you?"

She concentrates. "His eyes. I don't understand it. He scares me, his dark clothes, the way he stands, that cane. That cane scares me." I remember the dream catcher vision: she's been conditioned to fear that cane. "But his eyes. Yes, they seem familiar. When I put all the rest of it out of my mind and I think about just his eyes, and his voice—they're soft and kind and—they make me think of home. Wherever home is." Her eyes glisten. "But why does he look at me like that when he wants to hurt me?"

"No, Belle, he doesn't want to hurt you. Not at all. He cares about you."

"Ruby says he and I were together before the accident. She said people thought we'd get married someday."

"Yes."

"Why don't I remember that?" she buries her face in her hands and sobs. "How could I forget something so important? How could I forget someone I love? And why am I afraid of him?"

Pongo whimpers and licks her hand.

I slide my arm around her shoulders and pat her, letting her cry it out. She uses up every tissue in my mini-pack. When she has no tears left, she draws in a cleansing breath and asks the million-dollar question: "Why can't I remember him?"

"You will, Belle. I promise you, you will."

* * *

I'm so encouraged by our first session, so impressed by the strength of this woman and the power of the love she has for Gold that I'm certain we can break through her curse. Pongo and I return in the morning for our second session.

After a long shower and a hearty breakfast (supplemented by a bagel from Granny's), Belle looks quite refreshed, hardly a hospital patient at all. She is sitting up in bed, a closed book in her lap, but watching the hospital staff pass by her open door as I enter. I rap on the open door and she welcomes us in.

We chat a while about inconsequentials—the weather, hospital food, the little treats Ruby had been sneaking in from Granny's. As she pets Pongo, she remarks that she would like to have a pet of her own someday, though she never has had. I tell her all about Pongo: his quirky little habits, his favorite toys. I describe my first meeting with him, when I'd wandered into the animal shelter one morning before work, just to pass the time, and I found a playful spotted pup there who instantly chose me as a friend.

"Oh yes, I know what you mean," Belle laughs. "We went into the shelter once too." The tilt of her head informs me the other person in her "we" is Gold. She suddenly takes her hand away from Pongo. She shrinks against herself. "How am I remembering that?" Tears gather in her eyes. "How can I remember that but I can't remember my own name, or his?"

"It's good, Belle. Don't force it and don't get discouraged that you're not remembering more. We're making good progress. I'm very encouraged."

"It's like. . . like sticking your hand into a murky river and trying to grab out a fish."

"One fish at a time, Belle. We have plenty of time. Just a few days ago, you went though a traumatic experience."

"I don't remember much of that night," she admits. "It was so dark, out there on the road. Confusing."

"Have you been sleeping all right, these past couple of nights?"

"I think so." She seems to have difficulty recalling even that.

"No nightmares that you can recall?"

"No."

"Tomorrow, you can go home, where you'll have all your things around you, your books, your clothes, your friends, and you can start to get back to normal. I was thinking you might like to have a roommate for a little while, to help you out: Ruby would like to stay with you. What do you think?"

She gives it thought. "It would be nice to not be alone."

Ah, Belle, if you only knew. Gold could be such a big help in your recovery, if only Regina hadn't poisoned your mind against him. "That's fine, then. In the meantime. . . Dr. Whale has been giving you some medication to help you sleep, but it's best if we move you off the medication soon. I can give you a more natural way to relax and get some quality rest. Shall we try?"

She agrees to a trial. I won't tax her, but I do want to wean her off the sleeping pills and meditation could help open up her mind. I teach her how to breathe properly—most people don't, you know, and so they don't get full benefit of the air they take into their lungs. Afterward, she says she feels more relaxed already. That's enough for one day, I say; I'll leave her now to read and rest, but tomorrow I'll be here with Ruby, right after breakfast, to take her home.

And later, we will see what hypnosis can do, for I have hope now that her memories—both those from Storybrooke and those from the Enchanted Forest—exist, down deep somewhere.

I spread word and her acquaintances agree to cooperate: we will make no effort to try to jog her memory. Any questions she asks, we will answer honestly but simply. The key, in these first few days, is to build her confidence, restore a routine to her life, give her a sense of normalcy and help her relax.

She seems to trust everyone around her, even Whale, but around Ruby she demonstrates a level of ease that she has with no one else. When Ruby, Pongo and I show up the next morning, she's already dressed and packed. Whale checks her vitals one last time, then signs her chart and gives her his business card with instructions to call if she experiences headaches, blurred vision or any other problems.

We walk her back to the library, staying just a half-step behind: she leads us, apparently remembering the way, but when we pause at the crosswalk to wait for the traffic, Belle's stride and her concentration falter and she panics momentarily. She can't understand why we'd come to the library when our destination is her apartment. Her forehead puckers; she fumbles in her pockets as though seeking something that would indicate her address, and when she finds only a pair of keys, her eyes cloud. She stares at the keys as though they might talk to her if she listens closely enough, and then she notices the keychain, which holds a tiny charm in the shape of a teacup. Gulping back tears, she yanks the charm from the chain and throws it into the gutter without explanation.

Ruby looks to me with worry, but I shake my head: we should not intervene. In the long run, this reaction to the charm—a gift whose giver we can easily guess—could be a positive sign: a memory has been provoked. Ruby rescues the charm and slips it into her pocket.

"Where is it?" Belle's frantic eyes search the front and sides of the library but she can't find the stairs to her apartment. "Where do I live?"

Passing Pongo's leash to Ruby, I place a comforting hand on Belle's back and direct her to the flight of stairs at the back. "Your home is upstairs, Belle," I said. "Shall we go in?"

She nods and wipes her face with her palms. "I'm sorry. It's so hard not knowing." We climb the stairs and she opens the door.

She stands on the threshold, searching the room for something, anything familiar. Her keys dangle from her finger as she deliberates.

The door opens upon her living room. The apartment is quite small and the living room barely can accommodate her couch, her rocking chair, an entertainment center with a tv and stereo, a coffee table, an overflowing bookcase, and a desk piled high with more books. She drops her keys into a small dish on the desk and takes off her sweater. I quickly launch a conversation to distract her; as she answers me, she moves automatically to a coat closet just behind the front door and she places her sweater on a hook without even looking. Through muscle memory she knows this place, and she feels safe here. This will be a good place to heal.

Ruby shifts her suitcase from hand to hand, and Belle catches on. "The bedroom's over there, Ruby," she points. "You'll sleep there. I'll sleep on the couch."

"Will you be comfortable?" Ruby frowns. "I can sleep out here—"

"I'll be fine," Belle waves a hand. "See? The couch is plenty big enough. Doctor-"

"Archie," I correct her. "You've always called me Archie."

"Archie, would you like something to drink? I don't know what I have." She patters off to the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. "Eww." She pours a quart of milk down the sink and tosses the jug into the recycling bin. "I have orange juice, root beer, tea."

"I'd like some tea," I say, seating myself in the rocking chair. Pongo lies at my feet and promptly falls asleep.

"Ruby?"

"Root beer sounds yummy." The waitress drops onto the couch.

Belle pours the drinks and carries them to us. She hesitates before she hands Ruby the root beer; she stares at the glass.

"What is it?" Ruby asks. "Do you have a headache?" Whale has commissioned Ruby to watch Belle for any symptoms of injury.

"No, no," Belle collects herself and gives Ruby the glass with a small sigh. "I was just thinking: I don't like root beer."

"Oh." Ruby and I piece it together at the same time: the root beer must've been for her most frequent guest.

Belle sits down beside Ruby and sips tea slowly, lost in thought.

"What do you remember about Mr. Gold?" I make my tone gentle, giving Belle permission to refuse to answer if she doesn't want to—or can't.

She shakes her head in frustration. "Nothing. Nothing." But her eyes move across the room to the entertainment center, where there's a photo of the two of them, bundled in winter coats, leaning into each other and smiling for the camera (or each other). There's snow on their coats and their cheeks are red with the cold. I've never seen him smile like that—with his eyes. I wonder who took the photo—who he allowed to see him so unguarded.

She clears her throat nervously.

I wander over to the entertainment center and look at her CD collection. It's eclectic, something from every genre: a crash course in this world's music. She seems to have settled at some point on country rock, starting with John Denver and the Eagles and moving into the new millennium with the Dixie Chicks, Blake Shelton, Carrie Underwood and Tim McGraw. It seems a likely match, this music that's soft but confident, insightful and sincere. Like her.

But off to the side there's a stack of psychedelic and hard rock: Hendrix, Joplin, Led Zepplin, the Stones, the latter-60s Beatles, Steppenwolf, the Troggs. I pick up the top disk: "'Wild Thing.'"

Ruby nods approvingly. "My girl likes to rock. Wait'll I introduce you to some of my music. We'll have fun, Belle."

Belle puzzles. "Those aren't mine."

Ruby's eyebrows shoot up. "Gold? Gold listens to Hendrix?"

"I. . . I think. . ." Her eyes glaze as she latches onto a half-thought. "I think yes, but it's a secret."

"Are some of these his too?" I ask of the DVDs lined up neatly on the bottom shelf.

Her face suddenly freezes. "I don't—I don't know."

I catch Ruby's eye and she takes my meaning. She quickly changes the subject. "So, maybe we could go to the movies tonight, Belle, if you're up to it. There's this indie film I've been wanting to see about a has-been rock star who's about to be deported. Unless you've already seen it?"

She closes her eyes painfully. "I don't know. I. . . we went to some movies, I think. . . ." She rests her hand over her eyes.

I need to take the pressure off her. I tell Ruby I saw that movie last Saturday and thought the lead actor should've been nominated for an Academy Award. Ruby and I begin to talk about other Oscar screw-ups, and then Belle blurts, "He likes to pour a box—no, _two_ boxes of Junior Mints into the popcorn and shake them up so they mix together."

Belle raises her head from the couch and grins triumphantly. "It's there, Belle. Your memories are still intact, just inaccessible," I assure her.

She needs praise and we give it, but we're careful not to be effusive; that would be condescending. Ruby knows these things instinctively; I find myself looking at her more closely, past the stylish clothes, the red streak she's painted down her black hair. She's more perceptive than anyone gives her credit for.

I change the subject. It's not wise to linger on any one memory; it's too much like touching a hot stove. We begin to talk about the library and Belle brightens; she wants us to tell her the plans for the grand opening, which would have taken place on the first of the month. Ruby is able to describe Belle's plans: there was to have been a ribbon cutting, with Acting Sheriff Nolan doing the honors; then a tour of the building, with Belle's techie assistant, a high-schooler named Hugh, demonstrating the bank of brand-new public computers; then a puppet show, story times, a performance by the middle school choir, and a mag—

Ruby doesn't get to finish her sentence. Belle gasps at the half-word and her fingernails dig into the arm of the couch. She draws her knees up to her chest and the blood drains from her face. I reach over and grasp her wrist: her pulse is elevated. "Breathe, Belle, breathe," I model the technique I taught her earlier. She gasps, "Mage, mage."

Gradually we bring her breathing under control. Her feet return to the floor; her fingers release the couch. I glance at Ruby, and Ruby nods: she understands that this reaction could come again at any time, and when (not if) it does, she is to walk Belle through these same steps.

Belle gulps her tea.

"Better now?"

She nods.

"What did you see, Belle?"

"A memory," she admits, her voice wretched. "I know now why I'm so afraid of him." She looks to Ruby, who's perplexed.

"Afraid of Gold?" Ruby asks.

Belle nods again. "I'm afraid because he attacked me."

"Attacked?" Ruby has no great fondness for Gold, but her tone is one of doubt.

Belle lowers her head and her voice. "Many times. Here and there."

"There?" I ask.

"The other place. The dark place." I think she means the Dark Castle. We're in deep, murky waters now; perhaps we should back out. I study her eyes for a clue of how to proceed, but before I can take the lead in this conversation, Belle fixes me with a hard gaze.

"With his magic. He raped me."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

**A/N. This chapter comes with a caution: I've tried to handle this description delicately, but to explore Belle's trauma requires some detail. Highly sensitive readers may want to skip to chapter 3. **

* * *

Ruby looks at me doubtfully, but I shake my head: we mustn't try to talk Belle out of this belief, not yet. I need to know what she thinks happened, and she'll shut down if we, in effect, call her story a lie.

"Can you tell me what happened, Belle?" I keep my voice gentle. "You don't have to. You decide if it would help to talk about it."

"Should I leave the room?" Ruby asks, glancing from her to me.

"No," Belle is firm about that. "I—it helps to have a friend here."

We wait as she deliberates. She fiddles with the drink in her hand, swishing the tea around so the ice clinks against the glass. She's still watching the ice slide around as she begins. "He's a monster. Rotten teeth, scaly skin, claws instead of fingers. He has the laugh of a madman. But his eyes—I don't understand. His eyes are kind. He steals me from my father. He drags me—his claws cut into my wrist and draw blood—he drags me out of my home, and when we're outside there's a, an explosion and I'm dizzy and everything's spinning, I have to grab a hold of him to keep from falling. When I can see again, we're inside the great hall of a castle and he's dragging me again. He drags me down stairs—it's dark and cold and I fall because I can't see, but he yanks me by the hair and makes me stand up again, and he pushes me to make me walk again. He takes me to a dungeon. He flings the door open with his magic and he pushes me in, pushes me to the ground, and I'm crying but he slams the door. It's dark and cold and I can't see. There's no water, no candle, no blanket. I cry until I can't cry any more, and then I hunch up in a corner and kick at the mice, there are mice everywhere, and he doesn't come back. I'm so cold and hungry. At last he brings me water and while I drink it, he stares at me, and then he leaves again and slams the door.

"I don't know—days go by. I think I'll die here. I guess it's night: the temperatures drop. I pull the straw up around me to try to get warm. And then he comes back. He doesn't open the door; he just appears, standing there, staring. I can smell whisky on him. I try to talk to him, to ask for water, but he just laughs that crazy laugh. I start to cry, and that does something to him, he goes crazy, he waves his hand and his magic throws me against the wall, and manacles appear and lock around my wrists and my ankles. The chains pull me apart. I think I'm going to be quartered. And then he stands over me, his eyes are like a cobra's; when I look into them for some sign of kindness, I feel myself growing weak. I stop fighting against the manacles; I'm so tired.

"He smiles like a crocodile. He bends down and grabs the collar of my dress and rips, rips it all the way down, rips it off of me, and then he rips my shift, and his claws scrape against my skin. I'm so cold and so scared but he likes that, he likes to see me cry. He rips my petticoats, then my underthings, and he stares and stares at me. His magic is like needles jabbing at me. And then he—"

She describes the rest in such detail that Ruby, lacking the benefit of the dream catcher vision, believes her. Even I begin to doubt; I have worked with rape victims before and what she describes is convincing. For her, it's the truth, and though I know it's not reality, right now that's not what matters.

Or is it reality? Was the dream catcher vision—conjured by Gold's magic—a lie? I glance at that photograph on her entertainment center. I remember how Gold's shoulders shook when he saw the vision in the dream catcher. No. No. _No._ I'm certain this man is innocent.

I'm equally certain Belle isn't lying.

Ruby has taken her under wing, literally, and is stroking her hair soothingly and saying comforting things. Belle releases her fear and her anger in a flood of tears and curses; she feels safe enough in Ruby's care and in my presence to open up to us, and I find that a miracle, because, in her mind, she barely knows us. Or maybe it's not her mind she's trusting; maybe it's her gut, and her gut's telling her she needs us and we won't let her down.

I'm torn. Nothing in my experience or my study could have prepared me for this. Every patient is unique; every illness, unique; the treatment must be tailored to fit both. With another woman, I would proceed gingerly; over a matter of months we would deconstruct her pain, then build her back up again. Belle is too direct and bold for that. She's not just fearful right now: she's mad as hell, rightfully so, though she's mad at the wrong person. Most patients want their pain taken away before they start the work of therapy; Belle, I believe, has another priority: understanding.

Should I tell her these are false memories, implanted through vicious psychological conditioning techniques by some unknown "medical personnel"? She needs to know, and I can't hope to retain her trust if I'm not completely honest. But before this week, the total of all the words that had passed between us wouldn't add up to fifty: how can I expect her to take on faith my claim that the images in her head are false—the images so detailed and vivid that just to allow them to come forth has left her shattered? I find myself wishing Gold would return so he could show her that dream catcher—but then no, his presence, and especially his use of magic, would frighten her, and she would think the dream catcher vision a lie.

But there have been cracks, little memories already leaking through. Sometimes with amnesiacs, especially when the brain is healthy and uninjured, the memory returns of its own accord. Are her love for Gold and her own instinct of self-preservation strong enough to break through the conditioning? If I take the safer approach and wait for her mind to fight its way back to health, will it be too late for their relationship to recover?

She is strong, that's clear; when I ponder the source of her strength, I have the answer to my dilemma: her strength rises from the platform of truth.

She's stopped crying.

"Belle, we have two options. We could just wait and see; there are encouraging signs that your memories are intact and over time will emerge. This is the safest way to proceed; the mind has a remarkable capacity for healing. But if we go that course, in the time we're waiting, you're going to continue to be haunted by images such as the one you just described."

She narrows her eyes. "What's the other option?"

I blurt it out before I can lose my nerve. "I'd like to hypnotize you and prod at your memory. If we can access it—access the real memories that I believe are being suppressed—I believe we can set you free. I have to inform you, though, there is some danger in this: it's possible that more of the. . . visions like the one you just described will surface."

There's a sudden intake of air, but it's not from Belle: it's Ruby. She has the grace to say nothing, but her face says it all: I might just as well have asked Belle to walk into a snake pit.

Well, I suppose I have. But how else can we kill the cobra that's choking her memory to death?

Ever optimistic, Belle is. "The harm is already passed, don't you think, Archie? The man who attacked me is gone, isn't he?"

It's on the tip of my tongue to blurt out to her that the "harm" never existed to begin with, and the man she's referring to could do her a hell of a lot more good than I could, if she'd allow it. But she has to see the lie for herself, and I have no evidence to offer, nothing concrete to prove the torture she was subjected to in the asylum. As soon as I leave here, I'll be calling James and asking for a subpoena to search the hospital's basement—but I doubt if we'll find so much as a Post-It note to prove anyone ever worked there. Regina is impulsive, but she's also smart enough to cover her tracks. The only evidence I can offer Belle is the truth that's in her own mind and heart, the reality of her relationship with Rumplestiltskin. "He is. But the mind can have difficulty distinguishing between reality and vivid imaginings."

"I survived the attacks. I can survive the memories." Belle sets her jaw and nods crisply. "Let's do it."

"Tomorrow, then, after you've had some rest?"

"No, Archie. Now." I start to protest, but she interrupts. "I can if you can."

I wish I had my medical bag so I could check her vitals. I don't like to proceed so incautiously, and I tell her so. She glances toward the kitchen and my eyes follow her: she's looking at a wall clock. "It's been less than an hour since Dr. Whale did all that. If this can bring me closer to remembering my life, Doctor, I don't want to waste another minute. You can't imagine what it's like being cut off like this from everyone and everything you love—to be cut off from yourself!"

Being cut off from loved ones—yes, I can imagine that; I hear it every day from my patients. But being cut off in the manner Belle has been—she's right. "All right. If at any point you want to back out, just say so and I'll stop immediately. Fair enough?"

"Let's go," Belle says. "Should I lay down?"

As I draw the curtains to darken the room, I ask her to hunt around for some object she can use as a focal point: something she can hold in her hands, something familiar and comforting. She stands in the center of the room and runs her gaze over the knickknacks, the books, the CDs and DVDs. She wanders to the desk and sorts through the books on top; she finds a stack of unpaid bills (Ruby will have to help her catch up such matters). She wanders to the bedroom; she's in there a long while, opening drawers and the closet. When she returns she is carrying an armload, which she drops onto the coffee table to sort through. There are stacks of handwritten pages; there's an electronic photo frame; there's a stuffed bear holding a Valentine; there's a deep purple silk shirt that I recognize as Gold's.

She bites her lip as she examines these objects. She runs her hands across the cool silk, then holds it up to her chest and tries to make a joke about having gone through an Annie Hall stage at some point. As Ruby and I exchange glances—she remembers a Woody Allen movie but she can't remember the man who wore this shirt?—she sniffs the silk and mutters something about the familiarity of the lingering cologne. She sets the shirt aside and picks up the handwritten pages, reads a few paragraphs and blushes. "Seems I have an admirer. I hope it's the same one who left the shirt—I'd had to think I'm a loose woman!"

Ruby hangs her head. I understand: I'm feeling the same way. What Regina and her underlings have done is worse than if they'd killed Gold outright—if we let them continue to get away with it.

She turns the photo frame on and watches the pictures cycle through. One is of Moe; another, of Belle alone; but the rest are all of Belle and Gold together. There's even one that makes Ruby and me raise our eyebrows: the couple is laughing. _Gold_ and _laughing_: two more words I'd never imagined I'd put together. Belle scowls as she lets the images cycle through twice, then she sets the frame aside and picks up the letters again and reads one of them, her expression evolving from puzzlement to confusion to affection. Then she blinks hard and sets the letters aside. She takes the teddy bear in both hands. "All right, this is what I'll use." She lies back on the couch and sets the bear on her chest, toying with the valentine.

* * *

I have her under.

It's taken multiple efforts. I'm rusty; I seldom use hypnotherapy. I worry for a moment that Belle might be one of the fifteen percent of the population who can't be hypnotized at all, but at last the world falls away from her and she's floating in nothingness with only my voice to guide her.

With a whisper I ask Ruby to go to the kitchen and pop some popcorn. Ruby glances at me askance, but with a shrug she complies.

I take Belle deep into her subconscious by asking her to imagine she's in a house, a house she knows that belongs to someone she loves. I then ask her to walk slowly to the basement, open the door and walk down the stairs, one by one, taking her time, her path into the dark guided by a sweet-scented candle. When she has reached the bottom of the basement—the bottom of her subconscious—I ask Ruby to bring the bag of popcorn in, set it on the coffee table and open it.

"Hold the candle up high, Belle, so the light fills the basement. Move forward; take your time. There's nothing here to worry you; you're safe here. In front of you is a door; give it a push and it opens easily. Light pours through the open door. You don't need the candle any more; set it on the floor. Walk through the door. Look! You're in the lobby of the Bijou. To your left is the ticket taker; reach into your pocket and find the ticket and give it to him. Straight in front of you is the concession stand. Rows and rows of candy in the glass counter, a soda machine up front; a popcorn machine in the back. Breathe in, Belle, breathe the odor of the fresh-popped, buttery popcorn. Approach the counter. You'll have such fun tonight. There's no hurry; you have all the time in the world. Walk forward to the counter. To your right is a man; he's your date tonight, as he has been many, many times before. You know him so well. You've known him most of your life and there's no one in the world you'd rather be with. He holds your hand and when he looks at you, you feel safe and content. Tonight will be so much fun; you and your date and a good movie. Go to the concession stand. Claire is behind the counter. You know her; she goes to the high school. You see her here every Friday night. She knows your name; she knows what you like. She says, 'The usual, Belle?' And you say—"

Belle murmurs, "'Yes, please. How are you tonight, Claire?'"

"She smiles and chats with you as she pours a soda. You pick up the cup and listen to the soda bubble. Take a sip as Claire brings you the candy you like—"

"Hershey's Kisses."

"She brings you a bag of Hershey's Kisses to go with your soda. What kind of soda is it, Belle?"

"Sprite."

"The soda tickles your tongue as you sip it. Pick up your candy, Belle. Now Claire turns to your date. 'Would you like your usual too, Mr.—'" I wait but Belle doesn't fill in the blank for me. "He says yes, and she brings him a soda, two boxes of Junior Mints, a box of popcorn—"

"No butter, no salt," Belle instructs. She wrinkles her nose. "Boring. 'Live dangerously; try a little butter for once.'"

"And he says?"

"'Wait until you try my special movie mix, sweetheart.'"

"He pours the Junior Mints in and shakes the popcorn box—"

"Claire thinks it's funny."

"Does he make you laugh too?"

She falls silent.

"He picks up his cane again, then the popcorn."

"My candy in my pocket. I get the sodas."

"And you go into the theater. Where will you sit?"

"In the front. There's more space between the seats; he can stretch out his knee."

"What movie are you watching, Belle?"

"Somebody-or-other's _Ballroom Dance_ _Studio_—something like that; I didn't catch the title."

"Do you enjoy the movie, Belle?"

"Yes, it's sweet." She smiles slyly. "Especially the bakery scene."

"The movie is over. Are you going home?"

"Yes. Tomorrow's a workday."

"Does he walk you home?"

"Yes. It's snowing. It's been snowing all day."

I wonder briefly if this was the day that photo was taken. I'd like to ask, but I don't want to take her out of the moment she's reliving. She's remembering so much, and she's so happy and relaxed. "You walk up the stairs to your apartment."

"Yes." She frowns. "We have to go slow. The cold bothers his knee."

"You unlock the door. Does he come inside with you?"

"He always does. He says it's to make sure I'm safe, but. . . ."

"You take off your coat."

"He hangs it up for me."

"He takes off his coat."

"Yes."

"Look up at him, Belle. Say his name."

Her lips tighten into a straight line and she doesn't reply. I make a quick note.

"What comes next, Belle?"

"Cocoa." She runs her tongue across her lips. "With milk. And a teaspoon of chocolate syrup."

"You're in the kitchen, making the cocoa. Does he come in with you?"

"Yes."

"What does he say?"

"Nothing."

"What does he do?"

"He licks the spoon." She scowls now and her head thrashes on the couch cushion. "'No! Let go! Get your hands off me!'"

"Belle, what's wrong?" I'm alarmed now; I didn't expect this. Everything seemed to be going so well; surely she's immersed in a real memory, so how is it this lie has reared its ugly head again?

She shrieks and thrusts her hands out as though pushing someone away. "'No! Stop it; you're hurting me! Why? Why are you doing this to me? I thought you loved me!'"


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

I have to get her out of this, fast. I dig in my own memory for one that includes her. "Belle, look again. It's spring. It's a Monday morning in May and you're walking in the park. Do you remember, Belle? It's the first warm day this year. You're in the park, you can hear the robins chirping in the trees, you can smell the flowers coming into bloom. Remember, Belle. You're taking a little walk before you start work on the library. What a lovely day."

Her hands have come to rest at her sides and she sighs deeply, a cleansing breath. "Lovely," she agrees. "'And how are you this morning, Pongo?'"

Ah, I remember now. That's what she said as the dog and I crossed her path: like many people do, she greeted Pongo first, gave him a pat before greeting me. "'He's chomping at the bit.'" That's what I said then. "'Spring fever.'"

"'Maybe you should let him loose. Let him have a run in the park.'"

"'That would be a violation of the leash law.'"

"'Maybe, but it would be in obedience to natural law.'"

"'Tempting, but with four counts of cat chasing against him, Pongo's already on Regina's hit list. One more violation and she says she'll order Emma to confiscate him.'"

Belle snorts, just as she did that day. "'Spoilsport.'"

I stutter, unable to remember what I said next. She continues as if I have spoken, just the same. "'Why thank you. I think so too. They were a birthday gift.'"

Oh, yes! She was wearing a pair of earrings, little rose-shaped ones with a ruby in the middle. Oh—now I remember what came next. When I chose this memory a moment ago, my own subconscious must have led me here without my realizing it. But we're here, and I wonder if I should back out or follow this trail. While I'm deliberating, she proceeds and takes away the choice.

"'Yes, yesterday. I turned 29.'"

"'Well, happy belated birthday, Belle.'"

"'Thank you. It was my first-ever birthday. You know, in the Frontlands we didn't celebrate birthdays; we celebrated name days. Traditionally, a baby isn't named until it's two weeks old. I don't know why we had that tradition. I asked my father once and he didn't know either.'"

I know, but I won't bring it up: with an infant mortality rate of over 20%, parents in the Enchanted Forest grasped at straws: they believed that evil spirits took their babies away, and so that the spirits couldn't find a newborn, the name was kept a secret until good spirits had had time to find the baby and cast their blessing of protection. The superstition grew even stronger when Rumplestiltskin became the Dark One—Rumplestiltskin the Baby Snatcher. Once more I'm grateful to be in this world, for though it has its own superstitions, at least our children have a reasonable expectation of life.

But I'm falling behind. Belle is speaking, although I've missed my cue. "Yes, he did. He took me to dinner at La Tandoor. We had a private room. A violinist came and played for us. We had filet mignon and chocolate mousse and wine, and then he gave me these earrings.'"

"'It sounds very romantic.'" Something's poking at my memory.

"'It was.'" She smiles a secret smile. "'It was perfect.'"

"'You seem very happy, Belle. I'm glad.'" I was then; I'd heard a little about her history.

She whispers—I remember that she had leaned forward at that moment, as if sharing a secret. "'I am. But don't tell him that. He needs to be kept on his toes.'"

I chuckle, as I did then. "'Have a good day, Belle.'" And then I know what's bothering me: she's referred to Gold only with a pronoun. Doesn't she remember his name?

"'It's sure to be. Such a lovely day.'"

This is a good place to end, a positive note. "Belle, it's time to come back to the present. Look around you; there is a door in front of you. Open it. You're in the basement again. You've been on a journey and you're tired but content, and now it's time to come home. Your candle is there on the floor, still burning brightly, waiting to serve you. Pick it up. Ahead of you is the staircase you came down just a few minutes ago. Hold the candle high to light your way. Walk up the stairs. Take your time. You feel relaxed, rested."

Her eyelids are fluttering. She's coming out of the hypnosis.

"One step at a time. You've reached the top step now. See the door in front of you. It will bring you home. Open the door, Belle."

She opens her eyes and blinks. For a moment she's befuddled, but she sees Ruby sitting on the arm of the couch, watching her closely, and she smiles in greeting. "How do you feel?" Ruby asks.

"Fine. Did I fall asleep?" She yawns and sits up.

With a glance Ruby refers the question to me. "I hypnotized you," I say.

"Oh, yeah. I kind of remember." She rubs her eyes, then tilts her head at me. "Archie, I don't understand."

"Don't understand what?"

"Were those memories?"

"I believe some of them were."

Her eyes shift between mine and Ruby's in search of an explanation from either of us. "What kind of person am I, that I'm in love with a monster?"

"I could use another glass of tea." It's true, but it's also a ruse to give me a few minutes to think. I stand and pick up my empty glass and Belle's. "Would you like a refill?"

She nods. "I am thirsty."

"Me too," Ruby says quickly, and she follows me to the kitchen. As we pour the drinks, she whispers, "I don't get it. I mean, yeah, he's an asshole to everybody else, but to her—if she'd asked for the moon he'd have built a rocket to go get it for her. How could he be like that and be a rapist?"

"He isn't, Ruby," I tell her. "False memories have been planted in Belle's mind. But to her they're real."

"'False memories,'" Ruby echoes. "Regina."

"David is investigating."

"Emma's gone. He might need a deputy," Ruby says.

"Belle needs you first. If you can stay with her—I know it's asking a lot."

"I can."

She's something special, that girl. When this is over, I hope to find a chance to tell her that.

We carry the drinks back to the living room and settle in again. Belle sips her tea (Ruby made sure to add extra ice). After I've quenched my thirst, she presses, "Why, doctor"—she's reminding me of my role—"why do I love a man who would hurt me like that?"

"You don't." That didn't come out right. "The man you love loves you. He'd crawl across glass on that bad knee if it would spare you a paper cut." I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, throwing the power of body language into my words. "Belle. . . Gold is no friend of mine, believe me. I wouldn't lie for him. But I won't lie to you, either." Here goes; she's either going to believe me, in which case we can start our work, or she's going to throw me out. "Belle, I believe what you're experiencing is false memory syndrome. I believe that during the time you were in the 'asylum,' false memories were implanted in your mind."

"'False'?" she echoes. "You're saying that he didn't attack me?"

"No. I'm quite certain about that."

She raises a suspicious eyebrow. "What if the romantic memories are the false ones?"

Ruby breaks in. "Belle, we saw you and Gold together. A lot. You were happy with him." She sits down beside Belle. "None of us ever understood the attraction, but the heart wants what it wants, right? And it was clear to us your heart wanted Gold." She glances at me apologetically. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"I'm glad you did," I say. Her timing is perfect. I crouch beside the coffee table and pick up her familiar objects one by one, identifying each. "Gold's shirt. Gold's letters. Photos of you and Gold. Gold's Valentine's Day gift to you. I was in Clark's the day he bought that. He spent a full ten minutes trying to decide between that blue-eyed teddy bear or a green-eyed one. Belle, are Ruby and I wrong? Is there something we're missing? Because we look at all this, and it looks like love to us."

"There's no way you'd stay with a man who'd—do that—to you," Ruby says.

Belle is silent a long while, cradling the teddy bear to her chest and watching the photos of her smiling self with Gold rotate through the electronic frame. Eventually she sets the bear aside and picks up the silk shirt, bringing it to her face, rubbing its comforting smoothness against her cheek and breathing in the trace of cologne. Ruby and I exchange a glance: this is a good sign, we're both thinking; we both know the power of scent to evoke memories.

But not today, alas, not today. She pushes all the trinkets away. "Who was I?" she stares at Ruby, her hard gaze brooking no half-truths. It disturbs me that she's using the past tense, separating her present-day self from the woman she was just a few days ago, the warm, confident, generous woman we had readily adopted into our community.

The corner of Ruby's mouth twitches; she's on the verge of tears. "You _are _Belle French, manager of the town library, and my friend."

"Did I hurt people?" she grabs Ruby's hand. "Tell me the truth. I need to know."

"Hurt? No, Belle, you're just about the sweetest person I know. Definitely the most good-natured. Everybody adores you."

"I lived here." She looks around the room critically.

"Yes. You have for about six months. You're happy here."

"I don't seem to have much money."

"No, not much, but you get along all right."

She drops Ruby's hand and scowls at me. "Why, then, if everybody likes me and I don't hurt people and I don't have anything someone would want to take, why would someone do this to me, plant these false memories?"

"To hurt him," I explain. "Mr. Gold is a powerful man in this town, and there's a woman who wants to take his power from him. Since she can't control him or drag him over to her side, she wants to bring him down in the only way she can—by hurting you."

"Because he loves me." Belle rolls the words across her tongue, tasting them to find out if they sound sweet to her—and right. She can't seem to decide; she tastes the words again. "Because he loves me."

"Yes," I agree.

She's talking to herself as much as to us now. "Love is hope. It fuels our dreams." She returns her gaze to me. "Help me to get it back, so I can get myself back."

"We'll find a way," I assure her. "I believe the same person who took your memories from you can restore them."

Ruby assures her, "We won't stop fighting for you, Belle."

* * *

I leave Belle to rest, with Ruby just a shout away in the living room. As soon as I get back to my office I call Gold and tell him my diagnosis. I've deliberated about this breach of client-doctor confidentiality, but he's the closest thing to family she has right now, and I believe he can help me to help Belle; I'm certain I can't proceed without him. I tell him I need to speak to Regina, but she's gone underground and not even Ruby can track her down.

"She'll be at your office first thing tomorrow morning," he says flatly. He offers no explanation for how he, from 400 miles away, can manage to pull off that stunt. Maybe he has a private phone number for her. Or maybe mages have some sort of secret paging service they all check in with. However he's going to do it, I'd hate to be in Regina's Jimmy Choos right now.

We're in a rough but necessary patch, I surmise for Gold, but there's reason for hope.

I tell him about the sacrifice Ruby has made, putting her own life on hold, putting her and Granny's livelihood at risk while she tends Belle, and he says cryptically, "It won't be a sacrifice for long."

I ask him how his own search is going; he says he's in a rough but necessary patch too, but won't elaborate.

That night, Ruby calls me while Belle is asleep. She tells me that the vice president of the bank came by the inn to make a startling offer, "out of the blue": Gold is offering to sell Granny the inn and the diner—and his asking price is a thirty-three percent ownership in both businesses. As a partner, the contract specifies, Gold will be responsible for a third of all business expenses.

"We'll never pay rent again," Ruby says in amazed tone. "Archie, tell me something."

"I'll try."

"How can a man be such a jerk and yet so—Archie, I don't even think I can say it! Gold—generous?!"

I shrug, but of course she can't see me. "Maybe it's like Belle said, 'Love is hope.' And our Mr. Gold is in love."

She sighs. "If it can happen for him, it can happen for the rest of us. Can't it?"

My toes curl in my loafers. "I hope so, Ruby."

* * *

She's waiting at the door when Pongo and I arrive at 8:50.

Regina is typically impatient, but atypically—am I misreading the clues here? She's having trouble making eye contact with me, as though she's feeling guilty. Wow. But I don't take time to speculate on what Gold might have said to put Regina in this frame of mind; I have to act fast before the queen finds her mean streak again. I invite her to sit (she sits in the center of the couch, claiming the entire space), offer her a cup of coffee, which she waves away, and I sit down in my usual seat.

"First, I want to say I'm sorry for what my mother did. I want you to know, Dr. Hopper, that despite the disagreement you and I had, I never would have condoned what my mother did, if I had had any knowledge of it."

All right, it's a start. I know a rehearsed apology when I hear one, though. "I accept your apology."

"And I'm glad to know you're all right."

What about the poor schlub whom your mother killed, I want to ask, but picking a fight with Regina now would destroy any chance I have of learning Belle's "medical history." I simply nod. "At another time, I would be happy to discuss your situation with your mother. Right now, though, there's something pressing—"

"Yes. I understand there are some. . . issues with Belle that I might be able to. . . clear up," she continues.

I find it interesting she doesn't mention Gold at all—as though the invocation of his name could bring trouble. "That's right. While Belle was locked up in the 'asylum,' she was apparently subjected to some sort of psychological conditioning that planted false memories. As long as she had her real memories—and was free of the drugs that had been pumped into her—she was able to keep the false memories sublimated. Under normal conditions, she's a woman with a strong sense of self, and she places a high premium on truth. But when she crossed the town line, all her real memories became inaccessible to her and all that she was left with were the fake ones—awful memories that have stolen away all her relationships, and worse, everything she knew about herself. The mind can't survive in a vacuum, Regina; in desperation it will grab for any information, even lies if the truth can't be found."

Regina is taking this all in, but she isn't looking at me and her impatience lingers. She will help me, but only to avoid whatever consequences Gold threatened her with. But after my previous sessions with her, I have to believe that she sincerely wants to change—at least, I have to know for myself if she's even capable of empathy. If she is, and if I can mine it, she'll tell me everything I need to know to help Belle. So once again, I violate patient-doctor confidentiality—and pray it's for the higher good.

"Those false memories include some extremely damaging images. Regina, Belle believes she was repeatedly raped."

Regina's perfectly painted mouth drops open. It's genuine; she's shocked. Now to lock in her cooperation by putting the fear of Gold into her. "By Mr. Gold."

She clears her throat. "That wasn't part of the plan." She finally looks at me. "Believe me, Doctor. It wasn't part of the plan."

We've got her, Gold.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

A hundred questions I want to ask her, but Regina might shut down at any second, so I have to choose carefully, ask first what I most need to know. It's difficult, though; she's sitting there so coiffed and cool in her tailored business suit, and I just want to snake my hand out and grab her by the throat and—

I'm dredging up an image that Emma described to me, an image as false at those planted in Belle: Cora, in the guise of Regina, choking the life out of an as-yet unknown innocent, in the guise of me. Such is the power of the imagination. I didn't even see any of that incident, and yet, my mind is willing to accept it as reality—even though, obviously, I'm alive and almost well, just a little bruised and a little—okay, a lot—jumpy in the knowledge that Cora's out there somewhere. If I, with all I've learned about psychology, have to wrestle my own imagination, how much more awful must it be for Belle, who was also drugged repeatedly and slapped around repeatedly and force-fed these vivid lies repeatedly, and on top of all that, had her self-awareness and her support systems stolen by yet another damn curse?

Gods help me, I want to do Regina some major bodily harm.

Ah, but that would be letting everyone down, wouldn't it? Belle is suffering; I have to help her. Gold is counting on me. Ruby trusts me to do the right thing, and to do it correctly, so that she can go home. And who knows the ripple effects one life has upon an entire community, especially one as interdependent as ours? We need Belle restored to us. Yet, I'd love to slap Regina around some before I question her: how dare these mages treat the rest of us like playthings, jerking us around for their own little power games, and sometimes not even for power or money—sometimes jerking us around just to pass the time. How dare they? Gold too; he's shoved us around his own personal chessboard just as much as Regina has; he's just not been as obvious about it.

Mild-mannered Archie, that's how everyone views me. Last Halloween Leroy suggested I dress up as Clark Kent, and then he sniggered and said, "On second thought, that wouldn't be much of a disguise, would it?" Wouldn't he be surprised if he could hear the thoughts in my head? Wouldn't they all be surprised if I acted on my impulses and David had to slap the cuffs on me and haul me in?

Time's awasting. I gulp my coffee, swallowing my anger with it, for the time being; when Regina's gone, I'll punch out my couch cushions, as I sometimes have my patients do.

"The records. Where are the records of what was done to Belle while she was in your 'asylum'?"

"Any records that could be produced would show only that a mental patient known Jane Doe was given three square meals a day, and a dosage of vitamins appropriate for her height and weight. If the doctor kept any records of her experiments, I'm sure they were destroyed as soon as Belle was released."

Of course. "Where is this 'doctor'? What's her name?"

"She still works for the hospital—and me. In Storybrooke she's known as Nurse Stern." As Regina continues, I whip out my phone and send a text to David, asking him to take Stern into custody. "She came to us from the same land as Dr. Whale. I believe they had occasion to work together from time to time; she may have supplied him with. . . . parts for his work, and advice. You almost could say she was a peer of yours, Dr. Hopper: she was a physician there. She made quite a study into the causes and effects of insanity."

The back of my head is tingling. "What is her real name?"

"Dr. Willa Bedlam. You may have heard of her under the nickname the London newspapers gave her: Jack the Ripper." Regina gives a small shrug. "To this day, no one has ever figured out that the Ripper was a woman."

I choke on air. "You. . . you put Belle in the custody of Jack the Ripper?!"

"It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. I needed a caretaker for my prisoner, someone I could control; Willa needed to escape London and continue her studies under the patronage of someone who could allow her the leeway it takes to make great discoveries."

"How could you endanger the entire community by bringing a serial killer here?"

"Oh, she's not a serial killer here, I assure you. Until that meddler you call the 'savior' broke the curse, Willa didn't even remember who was. Now that she does remember, she and I have an agreement: I don't interfere in her methodology, and she doesn't mess with my town, without my permission."

"And you did this to Belle." I'm on my feet now, my hands clenching. Her long white throat is well within reach. "Who's done nothing to you. Ever."

"It was nothing personal," she huffs. "If there had been someone or something else that Rumple cared about more, I would've left Belle to romp around with you other idiots all this time."

"What drugs did Bedlam use? What techniques for implanting the false memories?"

"I'm sure I don't know, doctor." Psychopath. That's the only way I can conjure up a modicum of understanding and sympathy for this woman, after all she's done and how little concern she exhibits for the consequences of her actions.

"You said it wasn't supposed to go like this. How was it supposed to go?"

Ah, now I've hit a nerve, though whether it's because she actually feels a little guilt or whether it's because Stern disobeyed her, I can't be sure. Whatever the reason, Regina's eyes widen and her mouth tightens. "Keep her sedated and under control, that's what Willa agreed to do. I granted permission for Willa to perform some experiments in return for keeping Belle empty-headed, as insurance, in case anyone ever stumbled across our secret institution. If anyone asked Belle questions, anything she might say could not be used against me. How that crazy hat-jumper found her, I haven't a clue."

"Regina, you're a smart woman." I'm dropping bait; she looks at me with a smirk and then I know she's bitten and I reel her in. "That's why I think you're talking out your ass. I think you've known all along what was being done in _your_ 'asylum' and I'm going to make damn sure you're held responsible for it." I should be careful; after all, though her clout in this town is shot, she still has magic. But as my brain cells marinate in this information, I'm getting drunk on anger. "You've been screwing with us long enough. Your magic has allowed you to get away with murder and there wasn't a damn thing we could do about it—and, apparently, not a damn thing Gold _would_ do about it. Well, you finally screwed yourself, Regina, when you decided to screw with him."

She stands and glares at me, hands on her hips. "I don't have to take this from you, Bug. You're nothing but the middle-class cousin of a cockroach."

"I'm sorry. That wasn't professional. I shouldn't have said all that," I admit. "But I meant every word." I may have just made matters worse, set a pissed-off Regina onto my fellow Storybrookers. I've probably also lost any chance there might have been to direct Regina in a program of much-needed healing. I don't have magic, I don't have clout, but for the time being, for the first time, I do have a weapon against her, and I'm going to use it. "Sit down, Regina." Her blood-red mouth begins to form a "how dare you" but I verbally slap it away. "You're going to tell me everything you know about this doctor accomplice of yours and her experiments, because if you don't I'm going to make a phone call." My upper lip curls. "How do you think Mr. Gold will take it when I tell him that not only did you authorize the torture of his beloved but when you had the chance to help, you refused because your pride was insulted?"

She stares, but her mouth closes, and as I flourish my phone in her face, she sits back down. "There may be some records. . . ."

I could get used to this power thing. But I can't let it distract me; I pick up my notepad and bark at her, "Talk."

* * *

He gave us permission to come here; still, it feels a lot like breaking and entering . . .or just entering, since we're using one of Regina's skeleton keys.

Yesterday, while Regina was still in my office, before she could change her mind about cooperating, I telephoned him so that he could speak to her—and put him on speaker, under the pretext of making this a three-way conversation, but to be honest, yeah, my curiosity got the better of me: I had to know just what he was saying to her that elicited her begrudging cooperation. I never did find out. He made no threats, no promises, no pleas; his directions to her were all presented as if they were simply statements of fact: you will do this, you will do that. And she _agreed_. Is it possible for one mage to cast a spell on another? And by long distance, nonetheless? I suppose I'll never know.

So here we are, the four of us, entering the pawnshop, the little bell tinkling overhead. The place is dark with all the blinds drawn, and a fine layer of dust has gathered on the glass counters, for it's two weeks now he's been gone. I half expect him to emerge from his secret backroom, cane in his right hand, dust cloth in his left, to wipe down the counters even as he peers into our souls. It's a skill I sometimes envy: having it would make my job so much easier—but then, something tells me I'm better off not seeing so deeply into the souls of my friends and neighbors. If, after this is over, I detect a degree of warmth between us, I may ask Gold about this skill—not how he does it, or what he's seen, because I really don't want to know, but how he feels about the people whose souls he's probed.

It's not likely to happen, though. Even if we achieve the best of all possible outcomes, I really don't expect he'll change in his approach to me or anyone else—that is, his approach will remain one of inapproachability. With what he knows about us, it's probably safer for all concerned if he doesn't allow anyone but Belle to come close to him.

As we enter, Ruby positions herself between Belle and Regina; Ruby's intent is to remain there as Belle's protector, for, having no memory of Regina, Belle has let her guard down.

We've come here only after a full day's deliberation, because we're about to try something drastic, something I wouldn't dare try with most patients. I suppose you could call it extreme desensitization: we're about to expose Belle to a large dose of the very thing she's been taught to fear—magic—and in the secret lair of the man she's been taught to fear. If we fail, we could send Belle spiraling into paranoia.

I am not a risk-taker, not for myself and certainly not for my patients. So why are we here instead of safe in Belle's living room, chatting about her fears over tea? Has my judgment been corrupted by these two mages? Yesterday, when Regina and Gold and I formulated this plan over the phone—safe in my office, and me in my comfortable chair with my notepad and my coffee—it seemed to make sense. I'm less confident now. It's not only Regina I don't trust; it's the methodology: therapy by magic. I'm hard pressed to recall a time when I saw magic do something purely beneficial. Even Gold says there will be a price to pay for this magic we are about to do, but he added that he would be the one to pay, lest the magic extract its price on Belle or me (he didn't say "or Regina," I noticed).

As we enter his shop and turn on the lights, I wonder how much he's going to lose. Then I look at Belle, who is staring intently at the left end of the counter that's parallel the front door: Gold's spot, precisely where he has stood, hour after hour, for nearly thirty years. All four of us—even I, though I've entered this shop fewer than a dozen times in all those years—turn our heads simultaneously from that spot behind the counter to the curtain that partitions off the secret lair. We're all expecting the same thing: to hear that curtain rustle and the cane tap tap tap, and to see the owner emerge, a half-smile on his lips, his eyes piercing us as he asks the question that all shopkeepers ask, though he already knows the answer (or does he? Is he really just fooling us into thinking he knows so much?), "How may I help you?"

We're really not so far off. He has promised he will be here (without saying how; to the best of my knowledge, he's still out-of-state).

When the curtain doesn't flutter, Belle's shoulders slump. Her mind doesn't remember, but her body does. As I watch her, I have a pretty good idea what Gold would have said if I had asked him yesterday what price the magic would extract from him: It doesn't matter. No price is too high if Belle is made whole again.

Ruby draws in a brave breath, a "let's get this over with" breath, and leads the way behind the counter and past the curtain.

I suppose I am disappointed. I suppose I was expecting bottles of eye of newt and jars of powdered bloodroot and bubbling caldrons of something foul-smelling. Something a little more like home, his home, in the old land, his lab. But it looks like what you'd expect the workroom of an antiquities shop to look like: kind of junky. There are lots of tools and glues and polishes and solvents and such, objects that range from the seemingly worthless to the mildly amusing to the exotic but damaged. I've been told Mr. Gold spends a large part of his day here, six days a week; at first it strikes me as incongruent: I just can't imagine that elegant man with his educated speech and his tailored suits, here among the clutter, the rust, the mess. I look about for signs that when he's back here, he takes off the suit and puts on a pair of coveralls, but I find no such signs.

And then something even more incongruent occurs to me: Gold, who as Rumplestiltskin caused so much damage, who even today is a breaker of people as well as things, spends the majority of his life here in this workshop, fixing things.

Why?

I think about something I heard him say several times, in the old land: "Evil isn't born; it's made." After coming to know him a little better these past few weeks, I daresay he had only half the picture: if evil is made, it can be unmade, and the evil-doer can be remade. I believe it's been happening—incrementally, yes, for 300 years requires a lot of unmaking—but I do believe he and she have been remaking him together. Maybe that's what he's doing here amid the glue guns and the tacks and the duct tape: remaking himself by remaking things, repairing a little of the damage he's caused.

I wonder if Regina realizes that for many of us, including her old nemesis, her curse actually made us better people. I glance at Regina, who's eyeing the objects in the shop (thinking about doing a little shoplifting while she's here?) and decide no, she hasn't figured that out yet. She's still preoccupied with her schemes and machinations. Still too absorbed in being Regina.

I don't feel uncertain any more. My doubts about magic aside, this is the right place and the right time to fix Belle. Gold knows what he's doing; he knows what tools are required; and I am absolutely certain he can be trusted to direct, through Regina, this particular restoration. His continuance depends upon this: it's not just Belle we're fixing here.

"The box," Ruby reminds me, and she and I begin to search for a dress-box that Gold described to me yesterday. We find it behind a clothes rack—hidden, because it was meant to be a gift, but we're going to use it now. We open the box and find, wrapped in tissue paper, a yellow ball gown trimmed in gold and a pair of gold slippers. There is a cot near the rack, and we lay the dress out upon it, smoothing the wrinkles. We've been told the significance of this dress. Belle stands behind us, waiting; we are disappointed that the garment's significance escapes her. Ruby lays the dress across her arm and leads Belle into a restroom off the workroom, and they close the door.

I reach into the box for the slippers and I find something else: a portfolio, like artists use, wrapped in a satin ribbon. I'm intruding, but—I open the portfolio and slide out the contents: five sketches, three in pencil, two in charcoal, of Belle. The clothing represented in the charcoal sketches clues me in that these drawings were made in the old country. The pencil sketches are all recent.

Carefully I return the sketches to the portfolio and the portfolio, to the box. They make me sad. They make me wonder: in another place, another time, what could this man have been? But I remind myself a man can be remade, and in this new land, now that we are free of curses, we are free to start again.

Regina calls me over. She's found what she was supposed to: a full-length mirror on a bevel. She withdraws the tarp from it and asks me to help her clear a space in the center of the room; when we've done so, we move the mirror to that space.

Belle and Ruby emerge from the restroom. Instead of her blouse and jeans, Belle is wearing the ball gown. Ruby helps her slide into the slippers. We watch her for a sign of recognition, but none comes.

"How lovely," Regina says in that double-edged voice of hers. "A princess ready for the ball." Ruby glares at her. Regina knows, from our phone call yesterday, that what this dress should mean to Belle; she also knows what it means to Gold: he has hoped to present it to her someday as her wedding dress.

"Let's get to work," I say—so that we can make that someday possible.

Regina examines the mirror for a moment, then her fingertips start to glow and she runs them in a counter-clockwise motion along the frame, and the wood starts to glow. Then she presses her palms to the center of the mirror, and veins of glowing light streak out from her palm prints to the mirror's edges. In another moment the entire mirror shimmers like a pond in a summer breeze.

"All right, then," Regina says.

Ruby waves a hand in a showing of manners. "After you."

Regina smoothes her skirt, then steps up to the mirror, lifts one of her Jimmy Choos-clad dainties and steps through the mirror. She looks around, then turns to us.

I enter next. It feels like walking through a dry waterfall. My skin goosebumps with a chill in the air, which on this side is thinner, like mountain air. My vision is shortened and when Regina moves, the clacking of her heels sounds flatter, less echo-y. It appears we are nowhere: not in a place, just an empty space.

Ruby and Belle pass through the mirror.

I'm anxious to get started so we can get this over with. I start forward, but Regina's manicured hand stops me. I glance at her and she shakes her head, and when I look forward I understand why: ahead of us in the distance is Gold, leaning on his cane and waiting expressionlessly. I wonder if he's here in the same way we are, or if this is an astral projection and he's actually sitting in a hotel room in New York. I wonder if it matters.

He is waiting for Belle. She looks to me: the blood has fled her face and she's shaking; I suspect it's his presence and not our trip through the looking-glass that has rattled her. But she trusts me when I motion her ahead. We three remain back as Belle walks to him. In her soft slippers her feet make no sound.

When she is still a dozen feet away, Gold straightens and steps to his right. A shadow passes through his body, moving to the left, and when it has separated from him it solidifies, becoming Rumplestiltskin in all his sparkly-skinned leatherness. Unlike his Storybrooke counterpart, the imp is grinning and his hands clasp in delight as Belle keeps walking.

Perhaps in his stillness Gold seems less threatening, for Belle moves to him first. When she is within arm's reach, he slides his hand down from the handle of the cane to the middle. A small violet cloud envelopes the cane; when it dissipates, the cane has transformed into a sword. Gold presents the sword to Belle, hilt first; she slips her hand over the grip, lifts the sword to test its weight and length. Seemingly satisfied, she swirls the sword expertly, as if it were made for her, and Gold steps back and vanishes.

"What's the sword about?" Ruby whispers.

Regina whispers back, "That's her Sword of Truth. Everyone has one; most people relegate theirs to the netherworlds, where it won't get in the way. Belle's an exception; she keeps hers close." She reads my expression and makes a face at me. "Oh, don't look at me like that, Hopper. I have one too. . . it's kind of rusty."

She hesitates, glancing back at us, before walking to Rumplestiltskin. In my memory that wild giggle of his echoes, but here he is quiet and still, so as not to scare Belle away, I think. His mouth grins but his eyes express worry and sadness. Slowly, he starts to reach a hand toward Belle's face, but she steps backward and his hand drops to his side. He cocks his head at her and appears to say something, but we're too far away to hear. His left hand splays against his chest, as though he's making a vow, but instead his long claws reach through skin and bone, and when his hand emerges it bears a red, glowing, throbbing mass, more light than substance. His hand moves slowly towards her, carrying the throbbing thing to her—and into her, into her chest. When he withdraws his hand, the thing has vanished.

Regina leans toward me, gobsmacked. "His heart," she explains. "He just surrendered possession of his heart to her."

Since we're behind her, we can't see her face, but Belle's body suddenly jerks and then relaxes. Rumplestiltskin bows to her, then with a last smile of encouragement he vanishes.

As we catch up to her, Regina gasps and draws my attention to Belle's hands—which are glowing. In a hushed tone Regina tells me what it means: "My gods, he's given her his magic."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

She leans her sword against her leg and raises her hands to her face. When the glow issuing from them brightens, I glance to my right and spy Regina staring hungrily at those hands; I've seen this look of near-starvation in the eyes of alcoholics and addicts as they've described the initial taste of their preferred drug. Weeks ago, Regina gave up her short-lived attempt to go cold turkey; she has magic—if she's to be believed, she has plenty of it—but she wants more. A clever addict like her, realizing that the environment of this world is magic-unfriendly, would love the opportunity to acquire extra supplies as a back-up. I wonder if it's possible for one mage to steal another's magic.

A quick glance at Ruby informs me she's thinking something similar. She'll be keeping an even closer watch on Regina now.

I return my attention to Belle. What Rumplestiltskin has done is just about the boldest move I've ever seen, not only for himself (has he already found his son and therefore feels he no longer needs magic?) but also for Belle. It's equivalent to taking an aerophobic sky diving. He didn't just give her magic: he gave her _his_ magic, unadulterated power. And to Belle, who's been conditioned into a phobia of magic.

When she begins to frantically rub her hands on her skirt, I come to Belle's side. I talk to her softly, lead her through a breathing exercise; when she has calmed, her hands stop glowing, and that enables her to relax. I call Regina over and ask her to give Belle a quick lesson in magic management. Ruby goes on high alert as the queen smiles her cool, smooth smile and teaches Belle how to turn the magic on and off. It's fascinating for all of us humans.

As Belle becomes gains control of the magic, she comes to see it not as an invader to her body but, as Regina does, as added muscle. Regina teaches her a few simple tasks, and assures her that if, on the journey we are about to begin, Belle should need magic, further instruction will be forthcoming. Ruby squints a warning at Regina; her expression says it for her: "Any funny stuff and I'm on you like gravy on a pork chop."

Belle conjures a scabbard and belt for her sword. Her hands now free, she turns to me, and what she says impresses me greatly. She doesn't fall to the temptation to play with her magic or to prod Regina for more lessons, as I admit I would have; she remains fixed on her purpose. "I'd like to proceed now." In just these few minutes, her entire body language has changed: the way she carries herself now reminds me very much of Warrior Snow, a quiver slung across her shoulder, a bow in her hand. I feel a rush of pride and I wonder if this is how a father feels when his child surpasses every expectation.

I catch myself glancing at Ruby. Has she ever considered having a family some day?

"Let's go, then," I tell Belle. It has to be her decision; I'm pleased that she's chosen to not succumb to the phobia that, I can see from the way she continues to rub her hands on her skirt, persists.

Ah, Love, you have chosen well. I can imagine no better a match for Gold than this woman.

We have all agreed: this is Belle's fight. She has to take it on alone, if she is to restore her sense of self: in the old world, she was a scrapper, her weapons being derring-do, wits and book learning. If she is to _feel_ like Duchess Belle again—and she must—she can't have her battles fought for her. We are here to set the scene and to offer direction, information and advice—and to make sure it's a fair fight.

Having just witnessed Gold/Rumplestiltskin's presentation of gifts, I am confident Belle is well armed.

As we start forward, I catch a backward glimpse of the four of us in the mirror. Our image is reversed from this side; it's a little disorienting. We're the urban version of the Wizard of Oz: the Tin-Hearted Woman with the perfect manicure, the Cowardly Cricket, the Fearless Wolf and Dorothy, who just wants to find her way home. Let the flying monkeys attack; it's the Wicked Witch we seek (the other one).

Already, Belle has changed. Her physical memory is awakening in her power gown; she walks with a longer stride and carries the sword easily.

As we proceed, I describe for her the same setting I use in hypnotherapy sessions: the familiar house, the stairs, the candle, the basement. Each time I call for an element, Regina produces it magically. Staying a few steps behind, we follow Belle into her subconscious mind.

We come to the bottom of the stairs. I describe a closed door and Regina conjures it. Belle places her hand firmly on the door knob and waits a little impatiently for my guidance. "On the other side of this door," I inform her, "is a small, whitewashed room without windows. There is a single straight-backed chair and single iron cot. The floor is concrete; the walls are padded. This is a room designed to intimidate you and control you. This is a room in which evil people did evil things to you. It's okay to be afraid, Belle. Let fear wash over you; it _will_ wash over you; it will pass. Take all the time you need. When the fear has passed, tell me and we'll take the next step. Remember we're here for you; talk to us if it will help." I set a hand on her elbow to loan her my strength. "I promise you, once the fear you have of this room has passed, it will never return."

Belle nods once and pulls the door towards her. She enters; we come in behind.

We are standing in the room Dr. Bedlam created, in Regina's secret asylum. It is as Gold described it to me—unbeknownst to Belle, a few days after Jefferson released her from this prison, he snuck down the hospital's hidden stairwell. He found this room—he recognized it by the drawings Belle had scratched into the wall: a tiny teacup for every day she was locked in this room until, after the fifty-first day, the "treatment" got to her and she lost count.

Gold found this room and he came inside and closed the door behind him. He sat on the iron cot for nine hours, punishing himself—and then chiding himself that he couldn't bear to stick it out longer.

It's a crowded room with the four of us crammed in here. We three stand back, giving Belle as much room as we can. Ruby stands with her back to the door, propping it open; the flow of fresh air makes a difference, I think. Still, my skin crawls. After a few minutes of silence, except for the hum of the heating system and the buzz of an electric light with a short, I'm ready to start talking to myself.

I'm overwhelmed with shame for my profession. This is how, in the not-distant past, we treated people with psychological disorders, addictions, learning disorders, developmental disabilities, depression. This is how, at one time, we treated people whose sexual orientation or gender identification differed from that which was considered normal. This is where rich men stuck their wives when they wanted to get rid of them.

We are so much better than that now. Aren't we?

Belle stands in the middle of the room, her fists clenched, her teeth gnashing nervously. She stares at the flickering light overhead so long that I worry about her retinas. After a long, long time, she growls like a baited bear and rushes at the only moveable objects in the room: the chair, which she smashes against the wall, and the bed, the mattress of which she slashes to ribbons with her sword. Panting, she admires her work. She _grins_.

"I'm ready."

It gets a hell of a lot harder from here. "Belle, in a moment you are going to see the images of two people who worked here all the years you were locked in this room. You will remember them. These are just images, Belle; they are not really here. They are in jail and can't hurt you. Whatever you feel when you see them, it's okay. Fear, rage, confusion: it's okay. You may even feel a sense of comfort, because you saw these same two people every day of your life for twenty-nine years. It's okay. Whatever you feel, let it wash over you, express it; it will wash you clean."

Regina raises an eyebrow, but I nod firmly. With a flick of her hand, a big beefy orderly and a nurse with a jellyroll hairdo appear. They seem like the real thing; Regina has mad skills all right. Beefy pushes Belle back onto the bed and pins her arms in his; during this entire ordeal, he makes no sound and I wonder if he is mute. Clearly, he's just here to provide the brawn. Whatever the nurse tells him to do, he does without question or hesitation.

My attention, then, focuses on Nurse Stern, a. k.a. Dr. Willa Bedlam, a. k. a. Jack the Ripper. She is not real, she is not real, I repeat to myself, but I swear I can smell her rose-scented shampoo and I can see the sheen of sweat collecting on her forehead in this stuffy room. And I swear the hypodermic needle looks like a seven-gauger as Beldam wields it, spinning it between her fingers. Bedlam walks slowly toward the bed, skirting Belle's kicking feet.

She starts talking her trash and it's so detailed it's believable. She's captured some of Rumplestiltskin's unique mannerisms (not so hard, really: the imp was a walking mannerism and nothing about him was common) and his speech inflections, his odd way of pronouncing certain words, the little quirk he had (which Gold does not) of faintly smacking his lips.

Regina. I glare at the queen and hiss, "Liar!" because I know now Beldam could only have learned so much about Rumplestiltskin from someone who knew him very well. . . a former apprentice, for example. We will talk about this, I swear it, at our next counseling session, and though it's unprofessional I will inform Regina of my outrage at her lies.

"Not rape," Regina hisses back. "I never agreed to that." As we listen to Bedlam's "coaching" of her patient, Regina's face blanches. Perhaps, after all, she didn't know the full extent of her collaborator's "patient treatment plan." That may lessen her crime, but it doesn't diminish her responsibility: knowing what Bedlam was, how dare she place such a monster in control of a patient.

Or should that be _patients_? "Were there others?" I shoot back. "Other 'patients'?"

Regina's flawless forehead wrinkles; she won't look at me. "Three others. Jefferson was one, until he promised to cooperate and I let him out. The other two were relocated after Belle escaped."

"You will show me where." I'm praying Gold won't pull his usual stunt of abandoning a situation once he's gotten what he wants from it. If he tries, I won't let him get away with it; I'll turn his own values against him and remind him he owes me. "Who are they?"

"Sidney Glass."

My gods. I'm ashamed to admit I'd forgotten about him completely. When he initially disappeared, I'd just figured he was off on a bender somewhere, pickling his broken heart, and then I. . . I just forgot about him. With everything else going on—Kathryn Nolan's "murder," Mary Margaret's arrest, the curse breaking—no. There can be no excuse for me, for all of us, to have forgotten a human being.

"And another Jane Doe. Someone I brought over at the same time as Belle. Someone who has no connection to anyone here; she thwarted me, and she annoyed me, so I brought her here for Willa to play with. In her own land, she's called Glinda."

When Belle's ordeal is over, I will tell her about these other patients. She will take comfort in knowing that through her, others have been helped. I'll also be talking to David and Spencer about pressing criminal charges against these three: Beefy Hands, Bedlam. . . and Regina.

I just hope I can keep Gold on my side. Otherwise—I glance at Regina—I'm toast.

"Gold is just as guilty as I am," Regina argues. "Hook is _his_ problem, not mine. And the curse that started all this? His. And the town line curse was his idea too. He said we couldn't risk being exposed to the outside world. By the way, Ms. Lucas, has anything been done yet about that stranger from Pennsylvania? Oh, yes, I may have been distracted lately, but don't think I don't know everything that's going on. This is still my town."

Gold created the curse. His culpability apparently far exceeds public knowledge of it. Yes, Gold must share the blame, but I believe he's begun to pay for his crimes, and I have yet to see much movement in that direction from Regina. Her attempt to break her addition to magic seemed a start, but a very small one, for her motivation didn't stem from a desire to make restitution but simply a wish to convince Henry to return to her. I remind myself the first syllable of _convince_ is _con_.

Ruby mutters, "Shut up, Regina."

Bedlam now hovers directly above Belle. Belle inches backward on the slashed mattress, but her back hits the whitewashed wall, the one decorated with her teacup calendar. Bedlam raises the hypodermic, taps it to release air bubbles, reaches for the base of Belle's neck, all the while talking, now onto a vivid account of the monster Gold using magic to transport Belle to his bedroom, binding her with ropes of magic to his four-poster bed-

"No!" Belle throws her hand up in Beefy's face; lightning flashes from her fingers; she curls her hand and forms a ball of fire and flings it like a quarterback making a hail Mary pass. It strikes Beefy in his broad chest, burns a hole in his white shirt and knocks him onto his back. Free now, Belle leaps onto her feet and backhands Bedlam's wrist, sending the hypo clattering to the concrete. So quickly that Bedlam hasn't time to defend herself, Belle smashes the flat of her hand against the doctor-terrorist's nose and it breaks with a juicy pop, blood gushing all over her starched white lab coat.

I try to bite it back, but a laugh breaks through. Our five-foot-one library manager is a street fighter!

"No!" Belle stands over her would-be assailant. Bedlam's a mess now, blood all over and her jellyroll drooping into her eyes, but she's not done yet; she smashes Belle's knee with an iron fist. Belle stumbles, slips on blood, and she regains her balance as Bedlam scrambles for the needle. They wrestle for it and Bedlam wins, thrusting the needle into Belle's stomach, but she doesn't get a chance to push the plunger; Belle backhands her across the face. Gods, that's got to hurt to have your nose broken twice. Bedlam skitters back on her haunches and tries to staunch the blood with a hanky from her lab coat.

"Spell!" Belle barks, and Regina leaps to attention. "Give me a spell, quick!"

Regina shouts back, "_Vermis_!"

Belle points her glowing finger at Bedlam and demands, "_Vermis_."

There's a little purple explosion, and when it clears Bedlam is gone (Fake Bedlam, I remind myself; the real one is in David's custody. I haven't spoken to—make that _interrogated_—her yet, but David did recover one of her notebooks, and I studied it last night). In the Fake Doctor's place, there is now an inch-long white worm, curling and uncurling itself on the cold concrete.

"Bird!" Belle barks.

Regina blinks. "Huh?"

"Bird! I don't care what kind!"

"_Vautour_."

Belle points at Beefy, shouts the word, and poof, he's gone, a disgusting smelling vulture in his place. Belle kneels, picks up the worm and dangles it, and the vulture snatches it and swallows it. Ruby pumps a victory fist and hoots. Belle yanks her sword from its scabbard, grabs it with both hands and slices the vulture's head off.

Except for Belle's panting, the room is suddenly absolutely quiet.

Belle wipes the blade of her sword on the mattress, then slides the clean sword into its scabbard. She crosses her arms, a gesture that isn't proud or defiant or even protective; it's merely thoughtful.

"I know that wasn't real," she says. "And it wasn't the right thing for me to do. I'm not a killer. But it felt good anyway. Am I evil?"

"Far from it. It's what you needed," I assure her. "You'll have a chance to do the right thing when we take the real Nurse Stern to court."

Ruby giggles. "She's going to have a hard time finding anyone to represent her, considering there's only one defense attorney in town."

"I remembered something," Belle sits down on the mattress, ignoring the red-yellow streak of blood. "She said he attacked me on his four-poster bed." She stares at me, wide-eyed. "He doesn't have a four-poster bed. It's a sleigh bed." She runs to me and I sweep her in my arms, swinging her about.

"Oh Belle, this is wonderful." It's all I can think to say. "I'm so happy for you. Gold will be overjoyed." I grin, trying to imagine Gold's face when it's overjoyed. I've never seen him at such a level of happiness: amused, bemused, pleased, but never overjoyed. "You can call him as soon as we get back."

"Doesn't he know already?" Regina glances at Ruby when I don't answer. "He's lived in that house thirty years. Don't you think he'd know he has a sleigh bed?"

Ruby gets it. She's joined us for a three-way hug. Ruby laughs, "It doesn't matter what he knows. What matters is Belle knows."

Regina shrugs. "So Gold got laid and Storybrooke has a new town tramp. So what?"

"Shut up, Regina," I say. . . though I must admit I'd wondered about, well, that. The way Belle and Gold snuggled together as they walked down the street (Gold—snuggling?! The next thing you know, he'll be collecting rent in his bunny slippers), the physical attraction between them was blatant. But she'd been raised with old world morals and he always struck me as rather old-fashioned. . . .

"He didn't do it, he didn't do it," Belle is repeating.

"Damn straight he didn't," Ruby agrees.

"It was a lie, just like you said, Archie. He loves me, and he'd crawl across glass on that bad knee of his if it would save me from getting a paper cut." She grins at me as she echoes my words; she's triumphant now because she knows my words to be true. "And I love him, and I'll fight for him as long as there's breath in my body." She glares at Regina, and I realize from the witch's scowl that there's a long history between these two women that I must explore with both of them in therapy sessions.

I'm pleased that another crack has broken through—or is this knowledge coming to her from Rumplestiltskin's heart? "Belle. . . .can you say his name?"

She releases me and moves swiftly to stand before Regina. I start between them in case I need to stop a fight, but Belle doesn't raise a hand or her voice. She simply glares at Regina. "In this world," Belle announces, "like the rest of us, he has a false name to go with the false life that he was forced to live. He hates living with a fake identity so much that he's never told anyone any more about it than he had to, and that's why in all of Storybrooke there are only two people who know Gold's first name. But his proper name, his _real_ name is Rumplestiltskin." She adjusts the sword on her hip and heads for the door. "And I've had it with being 'Jane Doe Number 1.' I've got a life and a lover to get back to, so let's move it, people!"


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"Wait a minute, Belle." I rush after her—she's buzzed on adrenaline now and doesn't want to slow down, but she needs to. "You've just been through an emotionally draining experience. Catch your breath, and let me check your blood pressure."

She makes a mouth but I give her a gentle redirection back to the cot and urge her to sit. Regina conjures my medical bag for me and while she and Ruby converse quietly, I do a quick health assessment. Though her pulse is strong and steady and her blood pressure is normal, something's bothering me, something I can't put my finger on. I'm about to suggest that we pull the plug on this experiment just for the day; it went very well and I believe that we're on the right track with this form of therapy—one I will never use again, I'm sure! And one I will never dare write up in the professional journals, alas. But I've learned to trust my instincts as well as my science, and so I start to lay down an argument for leaving the next step for tomorrow; she will argue about it, of course, but I'll put my foot—

And then I see it. I know now what's bothering me—but I have no idea what it means or what to do about it. As I remove the blood pressure cuff and look into her eyes (there's so much a physician can learn from the patient's eyes!), I'm dumbfounded: Belle's eyes are no longer blue. In fact, I'd go so far as to say those eyes are no longer Belle's. They are piercing, penetrating, secretive and threatening. . . the irises are unusually large, and they're a deep, dark brown.

I gulp. And then I clamp my tongue between my teeth to pen in the outburst that's my first reaction, because my second thought is _Regina must not find out about this_.

My first thought is _Gold_.

I have no idea how. I can't ask yet; I'm not sure Belle could explain it to me. If indeed this is Belle, whose wrist I'm still holding. I try to collect my thoughts. I release her wrist.

Am I talking to Gold or Belle or both? I start to whisper the question, but Belle leans in and whispers in my ear, "I trust you'll keep my little secret, doctor?"

I swallow hard and nod. Even if I wanted to announce her secret to the world, I'd have no idea what to say.

"All will be explained later," she assures me, and just to tease me a bit, I suppose, she adds with a smirk (granted, I don't know her well, but I'd swear Belle is not the smirking type), "dearie."

Okay, this is what's known in this world as a game changer. I send the ball back into her court. "Your health is fine," I say for the benefit of our companions. "I'll leave it up to you, Belle, if you'd like to continue today or take a break."

She's on her feet in an instant. "Let's move."

We follow her. I set the next scenario to take her deeper into her subconscious: another staircase, longer than the first, leading to another door. Regina conjures everything I describe (why is she being so helpful? As much as I'd like to believe she's changed, I doubt it. I keep a close watch on her throughout this journey.). Belle with her sword and her now-brown eyes leads the way.

"Beyond this door lies the treasury of your memory. Every single memory, from the smallest and least significant to those who have changed your life, is represented here. Each one is a coin, a gold"—I cast a quick knowing smile at her—"coin, and they are gathered in treasure chests, one chest for each year of your life. A memory is comprised of so much more than just the facts of an occurrence: bound up with those facts are emotions—what you felt at the time, how you feel now about the experience. And what you've learned—whether you admitted it or not at the time—from the occurrence, because every event teaches us something. Every event either adds to or subtracts from our preconceived notions, so even the small memories matter. For that reason, the most ordinary, uneventful day of your life still matters, and the memory of it must be reclaimed.

"You must go into this room, Belle, and take back all your memories, but to do that, you'll need to fight. Those people you just evicted from your life have created a barrier between you and your memories, and that cannot be allowed to stand. Imagine, Belle, that a cobra has wrapped itself around those treasure chests. Once you kill the cobra, the memories will be yours again, free to access any time you want. You must slay the cobra first. It's an evil thing, Belle, not a living thing; it's not a thing to be tamed or understood like the yaoguai. It's a thing to be killed, because if you can't kill it, it will eventually destroy you." I have heard enough of Belle's history to know that her own kindness may be her downfall, and so I'm trying to shore her up, but as I watch her closely, as I watch her eyes darken and her hand yank the sword from its scabbard, I wonder if I judged her to be softer than she really is. Or maybe this toughness I'm sensing is something new. . . something connected to this physical change that's come over her since we crossed behind the mirror.

"I understand."

"Whenever you're ready, open the door. It's up to you, Belle; we can wait."

She shakes her head firmly. "I can't." She casts a meaningful glance at Regina. "Nor can Emma and Henry and Rumple." She yanks the door open and marches inside. The rest of us scramble to catch up.

Caught off-guard, Regina hastily conjures the scene I've described, and oh, does this woman know her cobras. The product of her magic is the biggest, sleekest, most realistic, most hypnotic fake snake I've ever seen. Even Ruby stiffens. Belle gasps and stops to assess the situation.

Between the coils of the snake we can see little chests filled with gold. A few coins have spilled and rolled free of the cobra's grasp: these represent the memories that have returned to Belle. But so much more is trapped behind this cobra that represents the so-called therapy of Doctor Bedlam.

All right, I confess: a small part of me wishes to subject Bedlam to her own therapy. Of course the punishment that's assessed her must be in accordance with the law, the ethics of the medical profession, and community standards. Of course our court will be fair and ethical. But that doesn't prevent me from wishing we could do to her exactly what she's done to Belle.

If Regina doesn't get to Bedlam first. Even if Bedlam doesn't turn on Regina, the very existence of Jack the Ripper in our community warrants punishment for Regina, as doubtless the queen is aware. I make a mental note to warn David.

Belle has made her assessment. She walks around the cobra; it raises its head and follows her with its yellow eyes, hissing. It's compelling her to look into its eyes and fall. . .With a smirk Belle flicks her wrist and conjures a pair of mirror-lensed sunglasses for herself. The cobra's head rises up and back in indignation.

Belle keeps walking around the creature; its head continues to follow her. As its head moves the cobra's coils loosen a bit; it's distracted by the movement, it's puzzled by Belle's seeming hesitation. Another coin rolls from a chest and lands at Belle's feet; she picks it up, examines it, puts it in her scabbard. "My first pony ride!" she announces to us, meaning that the coin represents that particular memory. She keeps walking around and around, her pace increasing; my head moves with her, and as she begins to run I find myself feeling a little dizzy.

The coils loosen some more and another coin rolls away. Is this Belle's plan, to take her memories back one at a time? She will drop from exhaustion long before she reclaims her treasure. She scoops up that coin and continues to run. "The recipe for the cake I baked for my father's fortieth birthday."

The cobra is still following her with its gaze, its head swaying. Suddenly Belle screeches to a halt, raises her sword and slashes at the narrowest part of the cobra's body, its tail. She slices it clean through. This does not kill the snake, but it does anger it: the creature jabs its head toward Belle but can't catch her; she's moving too fast. Another coin rolls free: "The afternoon of the first day of harvest in the tenth year of King George IV's reign. My handmaid and I went into town and helped serve the field workers their dinner."

She's still running (such stamina! I should get her to take Pongo for a run.). She slices another chunk off the cobra's tail as she passes. Now the creature is outraged; its head thrashes and lashes out at her, uselessly.

Suddenly Belle stops, raises her free hand in the air and twists it. Coils of purple magic radiate from her hand and surround the cobra's head. The creature stops moving, bound by the magic.

Belle dives in, sword held high in both hands, a guttural yell accompanying her graceless but powerful slice. The cobra shrieks (I didn't know snakes could do that; maybe only psychological ones can) but the magic holds it immobile. Belle dashes in again and whacks at the other side of the cobra's head. On the third whack, the head flies off the body.

We cheer—but we're too soon. A new head appears on the cobra's body. Again Belle stops to think. She's panting and sweat glistens on her forehead. "Where is a snake's heart located?"

I have to shrug. Regina seems likely to have spent more time around snakes than I have, so I turn to her, but she shrugs too.

"It moves around," Ruby says. "Roughly about a third of the way down from the head."

Belle recasts the immobilization spell, locking it down tight for safety's sake, then she plunges her hand into the cobra's body. She feels around, pulling out an organ. It's slimy and smelly, and I'm pretty sure it's the liver; I identify it for Belle. She disgards it with an "eew" and tries again, this time withdrawing a lung. Regina chuckles. On the third try she has a throbbing, glowing, red organ that looks quite similar to the one Rumplestiltskin removed from his own chest and placed into Belle's. . . .

Oh. Maybe that's why her eyes changed color. Maybe that accounts for the toughness she exhibits now. She lifts the organ and Ruby informs her she's got it right this time, and Belle closes her hand around it, squeezes, keeps squeezing until dust scatters between her closed fingers. When she opens her hand it's empty.

The cobra crumbles to dust. Belle purses her lips and blows; a wind rises, sweeping the dust away. With a cry of delight she rushes in, sinks her hands into the nearest treasure chest, all the way up to her elbows. Then she sits back on her haunches and sighs.

We're waiting on tenterhooks.

"My name is Belle French. I was a duchess once; now my duchy is a library. I am the daughter of Moe French, the friend of Ruby Lucas, and the beloved of Rumplestiltskin." Her face glows; her body relaxes—but her eyes remain brown. "I'm ready to go home."

* * *

I catch Regina casting studious sidelong glances at Belle. Has she noticed what I have? If she has, surely she knows what it means. I want to warn Belle, but doing that without attracting Regina's attention is impossible. I don't know what help I can offer in a fight, but I will stay vigilant.

I reverse my directions from earlier, and Regina's magic sets the stage to take us out of Belle's subconscious. Ruby is chattering away as we walk, her conversation peppered with "remember when," as old friends who have long been apart would do. Belle answers warmly, but less loquaciously than normal. Perhaps she's just thinking, after all she's been through. Or perhaps she's changed, _very _changed.

We make our way back to the mirror. We stare at our backwards reflection; we barely recognize ourselves. Regina makes a graceful brush of her hand and the mirror's surface shimmers. She inclines her head politely. "After you." Ruby passes through first: it's quite a lovely sight, the mirror yielding to her, shining all about her, then closing behind her, like water giving way to a pebble. We can see her on the other side, waiting for us. I pass through next, my skin tickling, and I turn to wait for the other two.

Regina bursts through and then Ruby and I realize at the same time we've been tricked. It's the sneer on her lips that tips us off, even before she throws her hands onto the surface of the mirror and crashes them together in a closing motion. The surface instantly flattens and solidifies. "Regina! What are you doing?" I demand, but it's useless. I'm too late, not that anything I could say would have prevented this, not that anything I can do now can force her to change course. I am only a human.

"Shoo, Bug, before I turn Ruby into a fly swatter and come after you with it." A tiny motion of her little finger—to show me how great her distain for me is—sends a jolt through my body and before I can draw a breath, I'm flat on my back, my shoulder banged up from hitting a stool. Ruby begins to transform into her alter ego, with the intention, I'm sure, of doing bodily harm, but Regina immobilizes her. Not a hair out of place, Regina is so quickly finished with us. "Belle, dear," she sing-songs, and we can see Belle pushing against the mirror. "You're wasting your energy. There's only one way out, and that's to make a deal with me. You know a little about deals, don't you, Belle, after so many years of your association with the Dark One? The deal is quite simple: I grant you passage back to the world in exchange for a little information. One small piece of information and then I'm done with you. All right? Now that your memories have been restored, I'm sure you can answer my question: Rumplestiltskin's dagger—where has he hidden it?"

Belle drops her hands and glares.

"Belle, let me remind you: where you are, nothing exists. No one, nothing. How long do you think you can live in a place that is no place?" When Belle doesn't answer, Regina presses, "I know you can hear me, 'dearie.' You're trying my patience." Regina glances around the shop and spies a banjo hanging on the wall, waiting to be restrung; she conjures the face of a stopwatch from the body of the banjo. "You have three minutes before I walk away—which gives you precisely two minutes fifty-nine seconds before I destroy the mirror and you're forever trapped."

"Regina, why are you doing this?" I stumble to my feet, woozy from the spill I took. "You were doing so well. Have you given up on yourself already? What about Henry?" But I know I'm wasting my breath. I can see it in the set of her mouth: Regina the Mother is gone; the Evil Queen lives. I keep talking, pointless though it is, because that's my only power in this world.

Her arms crossed, Regina taps her fingers against her arm and sighs in great aggravation. As the ticking of the stopwatch echoes through the shop, she calls again to Belle. "Let's up the ante, shall we?" With a single movement of her a little finger, she sends me straight up into the air until my head bumps the ceiling, and then with another movement an apricot tie that Gold has left on his workbench flies at me and winds itself around my neck. "One minute, Belle!" The tie pulls itself from both ends, strangling me.

Regina watches in amusement as I gag and sputter. Ruby sails at her from behind, but before she take the queen down, she too has been flung up to the ceiling.

Behind Regina, on the work table, Gold's tool chest begins to rock back and forth. Into the air it rises, wobbling, hovering, then makes a beeline for the mirror and throws itself into the glass. Shards fly as the tool box batters itself against the mirror—repeatedly, until with a crack like that of a thunderbolt the mirror splits completely and Belle leaps through, her hands flying in both directions. The tie unwinds from my throat, Ruby and I are lowered to the floor, and a moose head attached to the wall twists down and its antlers open like a pair of arms to entrap Regina. Her arms locked to her sides, Regina squirms but can't release herself or her magic. With only words at her disposal, Regina spews them out, but alas, she hasn't her former master's flair for them. "So the kitten has claws. An entertaining show, Belle."

Belle steps up to Regina, dangling in mid-air, and with her sword pokes at the queen's belly. "Where's Cora?"

Regina ignores the question. "It seems you know more than you were letting on. How is that?" She lowers her head as if to read some message hidden behind Belle's eyes. "So Little Miss Innocent was playing me when she asked for those magic lessons. Naughty, naughty! It seems he gave you even more than his heart and his power. . . How very careless of him and convenient for me: I can destroy the tiger by killing the kitten."

"I don't have time for games, Regina. Where's Cora?" Belle—or is it Belle?—raises her hand to Regina's forehead makes a pulling motion. A beam of bluish-white light issues from the queen's eyes and where it strikes a blank space on the wall, an image is projected. It's like watching a home movie. "Where's Cora?" Belle repeats—it's like the old psychiatric joke _Don't think of a pink elephant_: Regina can't help but think of Cora, and Cora's image appears on the wall: the witch and the pirate are ransacking the library.

Regina's perfectly lipsticked mouth falls open. "How did you—not even he can do that." She blinks and the image vanishes, but it was enough to answer Belle's question. "How did you do that?" Her tongue roams across those perfect lips; she's practically salivating.

Belle snaps her fingers and Regina disappears. "Just because he never _has_ done a thing doesn't mean Rumplestiltskin _can't_," Belle mutters.

Ruby and I have regained our feet now and we rejoin Belle. I'm just a little worried: Rumplestiltskin's heart, Rumplestiltskin's power, Rumplestiltskin's knowledge—does she have his ruthlessness too? Is Belle still in there somewhere? "Where did you send Regina?" I catch my breath, hoping the answer won't be "to oblivion."

Belle frowns at me, insulted. "To jail, of course." She glances at Ruby. "Do you still have your cell phone? Would you let David know?"

Ruby nods and reaches into her jeans for the tiny phone.

"Belle, we need to talk about this," I urge, but she brushes the thought aside with a flick of her hand.

"Later, Archie."

"Now, Belle," I push. "I know you care about the library, but David can arrest them. We need—"

"We need to stop them," Belle interrupts. "It's not the library I'm worried about. What they're looking for, if they find it we're all dead." She snaps her fingers again and a handgun appears in my hand. I glance to my right and find Ruby now has its twin poking out from her waistband. "Will you help me, or should I send you back to your office?"

"I'll help, but I need to know what—" I don't get to finish. A wall of purple smoke clouds my vision and I feel myself being lifted, shifted; Ruby beside me is still talking on the phone.

* * *

The magic plunks me down rather roughly in the stacks. I hadn't realized I'd squeezed my eyes shut during the journey; when I open them I'm staring at a book spine: 154 HENRY, _An Introduction to the Subconscious and Altered States of Being_. So magic has a sense of humor. I wonder if it dropped Ruby in the wildlife section.

"Cora! Put that dictionary down and step away from the encyclopedias."

I peek out. Cora and Hook are just two stacks over, a huge pile of books at their feet. They're really asking for it now: they've pissed off the librarian. As Belle unsheathes her sword and steps out from the story time corner, Cora turns her head in surprise. "Regina," she mutters, "can't you do anything right?" The witch's hands fly into the air as she ducks behind a book truck; a ball of fire streaks across the library, but Belle tucks and rolls and comes up to her feet in the Horror section. The fire ball smacks into the Stephen Kings and a book burns (I wonder if it's _Firestarter_). More fire balls follow and Belle answers with snowballs that melt when they make contact, putting out the flames.

I see Hook slinking through the children's department; in a moment he'll be directly behind Belle. I raise my gun, though I have no idea how to operate it and I doubt if I can bring myself to shoot.

There's a low growl to my left and a large black wolf bounds across the open territory. When it reaches Hook it leaps into the air and the pirate's hook rises, its point aimed for the wolf's heart—I squeeze the trigger.

There's a yowl—a yowl, not a howl—and Hook falls backward just before Ruby lands on him, trapping him between her paws. My gods, have I shot him? Ruby snarls, tossing her head, her teeth tearing strips of leather from his jacket.

Belle steps out from behind the shelves, sword in one hand, magic in the other, and she walks forward slowly. Does she know, I wonder, that this will have to be a fight to the death? Hook may be persuaded to surrender; he's squirming even now as Ruby's hot breath fogs his face. But Cora is another story. I suspect she doesn't realize yet where Belle's magic has come from; Belle's tricks so far have been the stuff of newbies. If Cora knew just how deep Belle's borrowed powers run, the tide could turn.

I lean out from behind Jung and Freud and shout, "Rumplestiltskin!"

Belle glances at me, scowling, and her eyes turn gold. As she refocuses her attention on her enemy, I hear a sharp intake of breath from behind the book truck. After a long moment, Cora calls out, "Have you forgotten we had a deal, master?"

It's Belle's voice that answers. "Your deal was with him, not me." She flicks her wrist and the book truck rolls away, exposing Cora on her knees. As the witch scrambles to her feet, Belle drops a load of _Encyclopedia Brittanica_s on her head. Distracted, Cora loses a few seconds, giving Belle time to run forward, her sword pointed forward.

Cora raises her head, hastily conjures a brick wall between herself and Belle; Belle crashes through it. She may have his power and his knowledge, but the fighting style is all her own. Too bad Gold's not here to see it.

Sparks fly from the tip of her sword as Belle marches forward. "Come on, Cora!"

"Don't be silly, little girl," the grand old sorceress rises gracefully and flicks her hand; lightning bolts flare out from her fingers and strike Belle, burning holes into the ball gown, but Belle keeps marching. Cora makes a pushing motion and Belle goes flying backward until she slams against a study carrel, and still she clambers to her feet and keeps marching. Sighing in annoyance, Cora conjures steel bonds that snap shut around her body, but Belle cracks them open and keeps marching.

Looking bored, Cora elevates and binds me. "Another step and I'll squeeze him to death."

Belle stops.

"Mmm-hmm," Cora says. "You're that type. With that sweet face, you would be. I suppose next you'll be on about 'it's never too late to change' and 'the good person you were always meant to be.'"

"Oh, no, dearie," Belle drawls. "No talk. Just killing." She snaps her fingers and turns me into a cricket. I drop through the bands onto a book and take refuge between Dr. Phil and , where I can still watch the battle.

Belle is as good as her few words: she runs forward and slashes at Cora's head like a power hitter slamming a baseball, but at the last second Cora vanishes and reappears behind her, turning a pile of books into serpents that slither at Belle.

"Hey, Your Majesty!" A muffled voice calls from the children's department. "Remember me?"

"Fend for yourself, pirate," Cora dismisses him and proceeds to attack. Books and magazines become crows and eagles that battle each other in mid-air. Fireballs, ice, lightning and wind streak back and forth, breaking florescent lights, cracking windows, burning "Arm Yourself with a Good Book" posters. The fight drags on with neither side gaining an advantage; even Ruby and Hook forget their own standoff to watch.

And then the tide turns: Regina appears in a cloud of purple magic. "Sorry I'm late, Mother."

"Remind me to buy you a watch," Cora complains. "Now get to work. The sooner we end this charade, the sooner we can find the dagger."

Regina conjures her first fire ball. "And then Henry."

"Yes," her mother echoes. "And then Henry."


	7. Chapter 7

"You're not touching Henry." Mary Margaret and David, armed to the teeth, burst in through the front door and add arrows and swords to the mix. The dwarves, hot on their heels, join Ruby and under David's orders escort Hook to the jail.

"Well! This has become interesting," Regina laughs and begins to torment the humans with her magic.

"And very convenient," Cora adds. "The dagger, Henry and Snow White all in one tidy package. Everything you desire, my darling."

"All right then," Belle says. "It's time to go all in." And then she does a weird thing: she sheathes her sword and turns her back on the witches. From my angle I can see she's conjured a cell phone and she's making a call even as both witches bombard her. I hop up and down, squeaking, forgetting I'm no longer human and she doesn't speak cricket: "What the hell? They're going to kill you and you turn your back on them! Who are you calling, Belle? 911?"

Her conversation is blessedly brief. In a moment the phone vanishes, she turns back to the witches and throws around some defensive magic to protect the humans (humans—is she still human? Gods, I hope that despite her acquisition of magic, she hasn't become one of Them). And then she fades back against a paperback rack and in a display of her great powers she raises her arms, scowls in concentration; her entire body shudders and glows gold and the ground shakes beneath her feet.

"Huh," Regina grunts in begrudging admiration. She forgets to fight and her mother has to remind her.

And then in the center of the library, in the middle of the battle, with arrows and lighting and fire and ice whizzing past, HE appears. The witches lower their hands and stare in awe.

It shouldn't be as impressive as it is: he's in an undershirt, the shawl draped around his neck and a towel draped over his shoulder, shaving cream on his cheeks. Shoeless, he's shorter than usual. Without his magic, he's just a middle-aged man with a bad attitude and a bad ankle. That's what he _is_, and Regina knows it as well as I do, but that's not how he _feels_ to us. Regina takes a step backwards. I hop up and down and cheer. I now wish someone would notice me and change me back: I want to fight!

"Well, well," he says in his soft voice, which we find so much more frightening than a shout. He scrubs his face with the towel. "Pardon my state of disarray, but this does seem to be somewhat of an emergency, and I have some information that you really ought to hear, Regina, before you throw your sorry life at my feet for my disposal."

From their hiding places, David and Mary Margaret stand to listen.

"Belle, my love?" Gold smiles expectantly, but there's a catch in his voice. I feel sorry for them that the moment of their reunion has had to come in the middle of a battle.

"Welcome home, Rumple," Belle answers softly. She snaps her fingers and gives him a full suit, down to the plum tie.

He tugs at the cuffs. "Thank you, love. Welcome home to you, too."

Cora seems to know what will happen next and she begins to throw fire at him, yelling at Regina, "Quick! Stop them before he gets his magic back!"

Belle moves into his arms and swings her hand over their heads, summoning a shield around them, and under its protection Gold and Belle kiss, literal sparks flying as their lips make contact. He settles her more comfortably in his arms, everyone else forgotten, and they interrupt their kiss for quickly whispered apologies and vows of "always" and "never again." Their bodies light up as the shield deflects the witches' firepower. There's so much electricity in the air that every electronic device in the place turns on. The hair on my arms crackles as the kiss resumes and goes on and on.

"Now's your chance at Snow," Cora hisses at her daughter, and Regina tears her gaze away from the reunion and sends a bolt of magic at a cluster of Winnie the Poohs and Eeyores resting on the top shelves of the children's department. The stuffed animals climb down off the shelves and throw themselves at David, distracting him while chains of magic encircle Mary Margaret's neck and drag her toward Regina. Ruby snarls and bites at the chains, but her sharp teeth can't cut through magic.

The loving couple separate. As they move apart, Gold's hands begin to glow and he sneers, eliciting an unladylike curse from Cora.

"You're being used, Regina," Gold announces, raising his voice over the racket. "What do you think your mother wants in all this? It isn't you. Surely you know her well enough to realize she didn't come all this way for you."

"You lie!" Cora shouts. "Don't listen, darling. You know what a liar he is. All I want, all I've ever wanted, is your love. That's all that—"

"Someone else needs to be in on this conversation," Gold interrupts. He snaps his fingers and Emma appears in her pajamas, blinking against the light. She runs a hand over her face and through her bed-hair. "What—what's going on? Why—"

"Where's Henry?" David barks.

"He's in bed. We had a late night, stayed up talking," Emma's still trying to sort this scene out.

"Is he safe?" David shouts. "Where is he? Is he safe?"

"Yes, Emma, tell us where he is," Regina purrs.

"He's safe." Emma glares at Regina. "And I'm not telling you crap, lady."

"As safe as a child can be. He's with his father," Gold adds. He whisks his hand to give Emma a change of clothes, including her trusty boots and red jacket.

"Thanks. What's going on?" Emma points at Regina, who's still got Mary Margaret on a chain. "What are you doing to my mom?"

Despite her predicament, Mary Margaret smiles fondly. Emma's magic is untrained, undisciplined, but powerful in its rawness as she throws a blast at Regina. The queen is thrown off-balance and the chain vanishes, dropping Mary Margaret to the floor. Emma runs to her and helps her to stand.

"Now, let's clear up some misconceptions, shall we? So that we will all know what we're fighting for," Gold suggests.

"Tell the truth, Cora," Belle demands, and with both hands she flings her sword; it flies straight and strikes the witch dead-center.

It sinks in deep, but draws no blood, only laughter. "Silly girl. I never carry my heart when I travel."

"Tell the truth, Cora," Belle insists. "Tell Regina why you came to Storybrooke."

Regina pauses in her torture of Mary Margaret and gapes at her mother. She remembers. "That's a Sword of Truth."

"I'm sure we all would enjoy a good story right now," Gold prompts.

"We had a deal! You agreed to stay out of the way," Cora protests.

But Gold shakes his head. "I agreed to let you try to get her back, and to let you live. Have I raised a hand to you? And it appears to me you have Regina back. I'm merely suggesting that, as any good parent would, you might want to clear the air for the health of your relationship. And the best place to start would be with the telling of a small story, the legend of the Gold Child."

Cora clamps her mouth shut and tries to yank the sword from her breast, but it only inches in deeper. She sputters, the words wrenched from her throat. "For a thousand years, the hill people have prophesied that one day a child would be born of the union between the child of True Love and the child of Evil. This child will have magic far surpassing the powers of all his ancestors combined: he will have the power of Pure Evil and the power of Pure Love combined."

Emma gasps. "Henry?"

"When you were born," Cora looks to Regina, "I thought it would be you. That's why I made the sacrifices I did, to ensure you would have everything you needed to fulfill your destiny."

"Including breaking a deal with me," Gold snaps. "You're quite a talented liar, Cora, especially to yourself. But you chose to overlook a major detail in the story: the name of the child."

"The story gives no name—"

"Yes it does," he interrupts.

"No _proper_ name," Cora argues. "Nor gender. The legend merely refers to a 'Gold Child.'"

Gold spreads his hands as though no further explanation should be required.

"Who did you come for, Cora?" Belle presses. I see that her hands are still alight—has she retained some of his magic?

"Regina."

"The _whole_ truth, Cora."

"I came to steal the dagger so I could control the Dark One," Cora is struggling but the compulsion of the sword is winning. "To force him to kill my daughter so I could take the Gold Child."

"What a coup," Gold applauds. "Your own not inconsiderable powers, plus control of both the Dark One and the Gold Child. Brilliant, Cora! So much power—nothing would be out of your reach. You could have anything, _anyone_."

"Over my dead body," Emma hisses.

"Let's make that 'over _her_ dead body,'" Gold suggests. Dramatically, he throws his glowing hand into the air. And then he suddenly remembers me. "So sorry, Doctor Hopper. Would you like a piece of the action?" He changes me back into a human. "Your weapon of choice?"

I'm a man of medicine, a man of reason and compassion, a man of—screw it. This has been a long time coming. "Give me a bazooka." Gold chuckles but produces what I've requested. I have no idea how to shoot the thing; if I can't figure it out in the next few seconds, I'll simply smack Regina upside the head with it.

Gold suddenly goes still, all traces of Rumplestiltskin gone. He folds his hands in front of him; I notice for the first time he doesn't have his cane. I guess in all the excitement it got left behind somewhere. He leans just a millimeter to the left, taking the pressure off his bad ankle. In this moment his full attention is on Cora, and he allows weariness and regret to show. "You won't stop until you have Henry."

"He's our Holy Grail," she says simply.

"He's my grandson," Gold corrects her. His tone makes it clear: Grandsons trump grails. The magic in his hands darkens and burns. The magic says it for him: you'll have to go through me to get him.

"How about it, Regina?" Mary Margaret demands. "The rest of us know what we're fighting for."

"You still gonna fight for a mother who intends to kill you if you win?" David puts in.

"And steal Henry? Make him a slave?" Emma adds. "You claim to love him. Is that the future you want for him?"

"You set this up," Regina spins on Gold. "This is all phony. To get revenge on me for her." She points at Belle.

He shrugs. "Look at the sword."

She walks over to her mother, who shakes her head frantically. The eyes of both women beg: Cora for forgiveness, Regina for love. Not a word is spoken; no one even breathes; and yet it's so sad that a tear runs down my cheek and splashes on the bazooka.

Her eyes still locked on Cora's, Regina withdraws the sword from her mother's breast. Her mouth twists as she inspects the weapon.

"Regina," Cora whispers. "Please. . . ." But there's nothing more she can say. It's far too late.

Regina balances the sword in her two hands. She runs a thumb along the blade—dry, despite having been plunged into a woman's body. Does Cora have no blood? Is her daughter also bloodless?

"This can be a healing moment," I say. "Regina, come with me. Mr. Gold, late me take Cora; let me talk to them. I can help." But deep down, I don't believe it.

Cora stands limp, her hands dangling, as she stares at her daughter. Wisely, she makes no attempt to speak or reach out to her.

Without looking over her shoulder at anyone, Regina allows the sword to slip from her hands and clatter to the floor. She walks away, the front door of the library banging behind her.

David grabs the cuffs from his belt and starts after her, but he's back in a moment. "She's disappeared." He assures Emma, "We'll put out an APB." He approaches Cora, the handcuffs and his sword both ready for resistance. But he knows as well as anyone else the cuffs would be a waste of time.

"There is still the debt to be paid," Gold reminds her. "For our deal, two centuries ago."

Cora nods thoughtfully. "For my baby. The magic has not let me forget." She throws a weak bolt of electricity at him. "Take your payment, Dark One, if you can."

"I'm not the Dark One any more," Gold says. "Just an ordinary magic-slinger. The prophecy against me was fulfilled."

"By the Gold Child?"

"Both of them. My son and his son."

"Then you know how it feels when your child turns away from you." Cora's entire body illuminates with magic. "All that remains is power."

"It's no way to live, is it, Cora?"

"No way to live," she echoes. "You can't imprison me."

"It would be pointless."

"If you exile me, I'll only come back."

"Yes."

"This is no way to live," she repeats. A black look crosses the witch's face and she lashes out with all her strength at David. We humans duck for cover, but we soon realize it's not really a fight she's starting; she's provoking Gold into an attack. She will not be captured; with the fairy dust depleted, there is no way, no place we can imprison her that she can't escape. We would have to banish her, back to Wonderland or back to an ogre-overrun Enchanted Forest. For her, death is preferable.

Gold glances at Belle, his eyes pleading for understanding. "It has to be this way."

Belle nods and picks up her sword.

"I'm sorry, Cora; I have to break our deal." With a single flash of magic he destroys Cora.

* * *

David rubs the back of his neck. His arms and face are peppered with bruises and lacerations; later, I'll ask Belle for the first-aid kit that she keeps in her office to tend children's scraped knees and bloody noses. I check on Mary Margaret, who is likewise bruised but otherwise undamaged. And then I give full attention to Ruby as she transforms. I take her hands and help her to her feet. "You were amazing," I say.

"You weren't so bad yourself," she grins. "How about if I buy you a cup of coffee to celebrate?"

"Sounds great." My mouth is suddenly dry and I feel a blush coming on.

"Yeah," Emma sighs. "A cup of cocoa, and then I've got to go back to New York. Henry will be waking up." I must admit, as fond as I am of Emma, I was hoping this invitation from Ruby would be exclusive.

"Should I go after Regina?" David is asking Mary Margaret.

"We need to lay down some fairy dust in the jail first," she replies, then she turns to Gold. "Do you have any ideas where we should start looking?"

"For fairy dust? Perhaps it can be made synthetically, like diamonds. . . . There is perhaps a little left in the wand; I can take it to the chemistry teacher, Dr. Arzt, for analysis. As for Regina, she'll come back, eventually, looking for Henry. She's a victim of hope, the same as the rest of us." Gold takes Belle's hands. "I need to go back for a few days. Things aren't—things are unsettled between Bae and me. But tomorrow will be soon enough. Tonight is for us."

"It's all right. _I'm_ all right," she assures him. "I understand it all now."

"I want to take you with me, show you New York. I want you to meet Bae." He glances away. "He won't come here."

"I wish I could go with you, but the curse. . ."

"You'll wear half my shawl. Its magic will protect you as it protected me."

She catches on. "Because I carry a part of you inside me," she touches her chest protectively. "But your magic? If I leave town, it will be lost."

"I did what I needed to do. It's not magic I need now to get Bae back." And then he says something that blows us all away: "Belle, I'm ready to let it go."

Ah, but Belle outdoes him. "No," she insists. "I only had the magic a few hours, but I get it now: good can be achieved with this power; it shouldn't be lost. You need to keep it. Regina is still out there; there will be other Coras. And Henry and Emma will need to be taught so they can fulfill their destinies. There has to be a Rumplestiltskin."

He rests his forehead against hers and closes his eyes. "We don't have to decide just yet, I suppose. When we leave, perhaps Snow will babysit the magic for us."

"In that case, I can't wait to see New York."

He whispers something; she stands on tiptoe to reach his ear and whispers a reply. I wonder if there will be a wedding in New York this week.

"Come on, everybody," Ruby calls out, linking her arm in mine. "The drinks are on me." We pick our way over the debris toward the front doors. Later, we will gather a crew and come back to set the library to rights. We don't want Belle coming home to a mess.

We just want her coming home.

Ruby pauses in the doorway. "You coming, Rumple?"

The corners of his mouth turn up. "You inviting me, Little Red?"

"'Course. After all, you're our business partner." She winks at me before adding to him, "And our friend."

* * *

We convene in Granny's, and Ruby joins her grandmother in serving assorted drinks, everything from Emma's cocoa to iced tea for Belle to beers for everyone else. Emma raises her mug to her lips and is about to quaff her cocoa when Ruby calls for a toast. "To Belle, our heroine!"

Every mug in the room is raised and every voice rings out, "To Belle, our heroine!"

We drink deep, then Belle calls out, "To Archie, without whom I wouldn't be Belle!"

"To Archie!"

My ears turn red.

Granny takes a turn: "To our brave law enforcement team: David, Snow, and the dwarves!"

"To the team!"

How lovely. Celebrations like this really build a sense of community. And each of these fighters deserves our thanks (blush, blush, I shall even allow myself to be counted among the victors). My mug is half-empty and I'm feeling quite good; I'm even thinking that as soon as Ruby goes back into the kitchen to refresh Emma's cocoa, I'll follow her and ask, as casually as I can, if, considering that Belle will be out of town this Sunday, she might be in need of a movie-going companion. . . .

And then my conscience prickles. In all the back-slapping, we overlooked someone, someone who played just as big a role in this victory as anyone else here. Have they overlooked him intentionally? Do they blame him, because Regina and Cora are, in a way, his doing? I take another gulp of my beer. Damn it, I won't let this oversight stand. I raise my mug and shout, "To Rumplestiltskin!" And if I don't see some mugs go up in the next two seconds I'm gonna crack some heads.

But my town amazes me. Every mug and every voice is raised: "TO RUMPLESTILTSKIN!"

His poker face cracks. His eyes slide about the restaurant as if he's looking for a barstool to hide under. Finally he pulls his cool together and quips, "If that was intended to prompt me to pay for the next round. . . ." And we all laugh.

I've never been so proud of Storybrooke. We must never forget—I'm watching Belle hug her beloved and thinking of all she's suffered because of the curse—but we can and will forgive.

A few more beers, a few more stories, and then David and the dwarves proclaim the need to return to work. There are prisoners to be guarded, there is fairy dust to be mined, there is a fugitive witch to be tracked down. Emma announces that she's been on the phone with Henry and has given him the Reader's Digest version of the morning's events; she will leave in a few more minutes, if Rumplestiltskin will instruct her in the appropriate spell so that she can fly to New York under her own power.

"Of course," he agrees.

She slides into the booth across from him and Belle. "Uhm, Gold. Look, I think Neal ought to know about this."

"What are you asking, Emma?" Gold's eyes twinkle.

She produces her phone from her jacket and with a resigned sigh presses a couple of keys and shows him the result. "Back in the library, I recorded it. I want to show it to him, if that's okay with you. So he can know that you're one of the good guys."

Belle is beaming, but she won't interfere. The decision has to be Rumple's.

He glances at Emma, he glances at Belle, he watches the recording for a moment. From the tiny machine I hear his voice, difficult to decipher in all the ambient noise here as well as in the recording: "He's my grandson."

Gold merely nods.

Emma pockets her phone and stands up. "Okay then. I'm headed back to New York, if you'll come out to the alley and show me how to do the magic thing."

He quirks an eyebrow. "'Do the magic thing?' Really, Emma. The first thing we'll work on is your terminology." He kisses Belle's hand. "Back in a moment, love."

"Well, what do you call it, then?" Emma is complaining as they walk out.

"'Do the magic thing.' Indeed!"

There's an empty seat at the table now, and I grab it before anyone else can. "Belle! You've got to tell me; it's been driving me—"

"Crazy?" she supplies.

"Not exactly a term a man of my profession should use lightly, I grant you." I stare into her eyes—her blue eyes—and I'm puzzled all over again.

She smiles. "You've been wondering about 'the magic thing.'"

"Yeah. Back in the mirror, was that you or him or what?"

"When he gave me his power, I understood what he'd been experiencing all these years. But when he gave me his heart, I _felt_ everything he'd felt all these years. I saw his memories as clearly as if they were my own." She leans forward eagerly. "Archie, I saw his life flash before my eyes: everything he'd ever done, everything that was done to him. I knew why he'd made the decisions he did. I felt his feelings. It was a great gift he'd given me."

"Complete trust." And from the most secretive man in two realms? I'm stunned.

"I saw the world through his eyes. I returned his power, most of it; I kept a little to help me always remember who he is. I understand now that it was wrong for me to demand he stop practicing magic; it's the life Destiny chose for him. It's work we need for him to do. But the fact that he's willing to give it up completely for my sake and Bae's, I think that shows the magic no longer controls him; he controls it. He can be the sorcerer Destiny intends him to be and the man Bae and I need him to be.

"His heart, though. . . " she smiles down at her hands. "I'll keep that, forever. And with the magic I have left, tonight, when we go home, I'll give him mine."

"Congratulations, Belle," I say warmly.

"You'll still be here for us, won't you? We're still going to need you to help us put this family together. I'll need you, to help me figure out how to be a grandmother at the age of 29." She cocks her head. "Or should that be 57? We're going to have to have a town meeting about that: should we count those 28 years or not? I don't_ feel_ 57." She shrugs and stands. "Now if you'll excuse me, Archie, I have a trip to pack for. Tomorrow, New York; next week, the world!" She kisses my cheek in farewell, whispering, "And you have a date. Go on, don't keep her waiting!"

As Belle sails out the door in her ball gown and sword, I shake my head in bewilderment. How are we ever going to explain ourselves to the world? And then Ruby strolls over to ask if I need a refill, and I decide that's one problem that will keep for another day. Right now, I feel like taking in a movie.


	8. Chapter 8

Epilogue

I watch them from my office window. Passersby stop to stare openly, and rightfully so; it's a first-time-ever sight. Strolling down the sidewalk toward my door is Belle, and she's linked arm in arm with two men, one a stranger, probably in his mid-thirties, in a denim jacket and jeans; the other, her beloved—and my jaw drops because he's practically undressed, by his standards: no jacket, no tie, and his silk shirt is open at the collar.

Even more amazing: he's laughing. Not one of his patented I-know-everything chuckles, but a head-thrown-back, from-the-belly guffaw. I've got to be in on that joke: whatever it is, it's got to be a lulu. Gold, laughing. Will wonders never cease.

They stop at my door and Belle perches on tiptoes to give the stranger a peck on the cheek, then right there, on the sidewalk, for all of Storybrooke to see, she plants a big old smooch on Gold's lips. He doesn't pull away, he doesn't censure her, he doesn't even turn red; he just kisses her back.

They've learned something, I'm thinking. After all they've been through, they've learned to value the moment. It's a good start.

She bounds up the stairs to my office and the two men proceed down the sidewalk, turning in to Granny's. I open the door before she can knock, and she greets me and Pongo before flopping onto my couch. "Yo, youse guys dere! 'Sup?" she trumpets. Pongo presses his nose against her hand and she pats him.

"Excuse me? Welcome back, Belle," I greet her.

"Just practicing my New York accent," she giggles. "We'll be visiting there often, I think."

"Oh, is that—" I point to the window.

"My stepson-to-be," Belle grins.

"Wow." Now I know why Gold seems so carefree. Everything he's striven for and everything he's dared to hope has come to pass. "How did that happen? I understood that they weren't on the best of terms."

A dreamy look enters Belle's eyes. "Memories can drive a wedge between people who should be together, but they can also build bridges across great divides."

"Tea? I have orange pekoe today." She never refuses tea. As I pour her a cup, and one for myself, I comment, "I don't think I've ever seen Mr. Gold so happy. And you—your smile could light Broadway."

"'If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere,'" she sings. "We're going to make it, Archie. Bae and Emma and Henry and Rumple and me. As a family."

I set her teacup on a saucer and hand it to her before settling into my usual chair. "Tell me."

"When we arrived—we took a train and it was so romantic! You must try it sometime. Anyway, when we arrived, I asked him to trust me one more time. 'You trusted me with your power, you trusted me with your heart, now trust me, for one afternoon, with your son,' I said, and he agreed. I went alone to Bae's apartment. He recognized my name and let me in, but he said, 'If you're here to try to make a sales pitch for my father—' I said no, I'd come to because I wanted to get to know him a little, without his father being between us, and I wanted him to know me, because like it or not, we're still family, and if he and Rumple were never going to patch things up and we'd never see him again, I wanted to have at least a small memory of him. So Bae let me in. 'But I don't want to hear about what a great guy my father is now and all that crap,' he said.

"'No,' I said, 'I'm not here to talk about him. I'm here to talk about me. I've had a pretty interesting life, Baelfire; I think you'll find my tale entertaining.'" So he poured me a beer and I told him my tale. And since I was telling the story of my life, I couldn't very well do that without bringing up the most important person in it, could I? So I told Bae about my deal with the man who called himself a monster, and how I came to live in the Dark Castle and learn its master's biggest secret: that although he'd done monstrous things, he was a man after all, a lonely, sometimes kind, sometimes fearful man.

"Yes, a man who sometimes made horrendous deals, but a man who found homes for unwanted children. Yes, a man who could inflict terrible pain upon those who cheated him, but also a man whose hands shook in nervousness when his housekeeper touched his shoulder. A man who traded his health and his reputation for a chance to stay alive, not for his own sake, but for his son's. A man who surrendered his soul for the chance to save his son from war. A man who spun straw into gold, but also drew sketches that no one even saw. A man who kept a room full of clothes and toys that belonged to a child long gone. A man whose every waking thought for three centuries was for the child he had lost, and whose every decision had at its heart the question 'Will this bring me closer to Bae?'"

I watch her eyes brighten, her hands dance as she relates the Dark One's deepest secret to me, and by the end I find myself wondering if I wouldn't have done some of the same things, if it had been my son, and I tell her so.

"Bae had the same reaction," she smiles sneakily. "I talked to him all that afternoon, and after a while he started to ask questions, and then he started to tell me his own tale. I was glad to hear it, but I asked him, 'Can't your father know this? Wouldn't you feel better if he were here to hear this?' But Bae said Rumple was too cowardly to listen and too self-centered to change. I told him, 'Do it for yourself, then. All those things you've wanted to say to him, that you've been storing up over the years, say them to him now, because if you decide never to see him again, at least you'll have your peace. And I'll make a deal with you, on his behalf: he will listen. He won't interrupt, he won't argue or wheedle or justify; he'll just listen.' So we made the deal, and he allowed Rumple in, and I sat between them, and every time Rumple seemed ready to forget his promise, I gave his bad ankle a little kick." She flashes her teeth. "I can be mean too, when it's for a good cause."

"And they made peace? He seemed so happy just now. Both of them did. I, uh, was watching from the window," I admit.

"Not that day. But at least they were talking. And when we went back to the inn—hotel, I mean; that's what they're called here, and oh, Archie, are they magnificent! We stayed at a place called the Ritz. Anyway, when we went back to the hotel, Rumple slept the most peaceful sleep he's ever had, in all the time I've known him. The next day, after all that intensity, we needed a break, so Bae took us around to see New York, and I discovered a new hobby: photography. I have lots of photos I'll show you later. You must see New York sometime, Archie; it's the eighth wonder of the world.

"When we went back to Bae's apartment that night, so tired after all that walking around, and so full of good food, Bae said he would come back to Storybrooke with us for a little while, so that he could spend time with Henry—and with us. When he said that, Rumple got all choked up, and then Bae took out a bottle of wine and he made a toast. 'To second chances,' he said. And we sat down and he said to Rumple, 'You know my story now. Why don't you tell me yours?'" Belle pauses to sip her tea. "And he did. All those secrets came tumbling out, things Rumple had never even told me. And Bae just listened. He asked questions, but he gave his father the same courtesy that his father had given him. They talked till the sun came up—I'm sorry to confess I fell asleep on Rumple's lap. When they woke me up, they'd already bought plane tickets to back to Boston—three tickets. Bae says he can only stay a couple of days, but he's going to set us and Henry up with something called. . . I think he called it 'Sky.' So we can see each other over the computer."

Belle's head drops back against the cushions of the couch. "It's a wonderful thing, Archie, this land we're living in. Not just the stuff in it, but the people. Bae says this country is the land of fresh starts."

"I'm so happy for you, Belle, for all of you. You all deserve this second chance." I stand to pour her another cup of tea.

"I think so too," she says. "We had a long talk this morning about magic; that's still a sore spot. Bae still wants him to give it up, and Rumple is willing, but I'm asking them to wait. Someone has to be able to stop Regina."

"Have you resolved the issue?"

"For now. Rumple's going to start training Emma, and when she's ready, he'll surrender the last of his powers to her. He says he's not worried the power will go to her head, the way it did him; the Dark curse is broken, and besides, Snow will keep Emma in line."

We both chuckle at that, because we know where the true power lies.

"Now there's one more little problem I need your help with."

"Certainly, Belle." I scoot forward in my seat, eager to go back to work, pleased to know I'm still needed, despite all the fence-mending this odd little family has accomplished on its own.

"We need some advice on how to approach my father. You know he and I weren't on speaking terms before the Hook incident, and it really had nothing to do with Rumple. It was the way my father treated me, like I was a child incapable of making my own decisions."

"I've seen evidence that he no longer holds that opinion, Belle," I assure her. "Ruby told him how you fought Regina and Cora, and ever since then he's been boasting about you to anyone who'll listen. I think he's ready to patch things up, if you are."

"I am, and Rumple is too."

"Ah, yes," I nod. It's common knowledge that bad blood exists between those two men, but then bad blood exists between Gold and just about everyone in town. "That's good news, but I'm afraid _that_ reunion will take a bit more work."

"Yeah," Belle chews her lip. "Well, here's the thing. We need to speed it up a little bit. Two weeks, to be exact. Because we'd really like for him to walk me down the aisle. . . ."

Pongo raises his head from her knee as though he understands, and he asks to be petted. I jump to my feet and give her a hug. "I think we can make that happen, Belle."

"I sure hope so, but they both can be so pig-headed."

"After all the miracles that have happened these past few days, I think this one will be a piece of cake."

"Really? I sure hope so." She looks doubtful. "It would be nice to have something go easy for a change, wouldn't it?"

I ask what I assume will be one of those easy choices. "So where are you going to get married, Belle?"

"Here, in the gazebo in the park. Bae will be the best man, and Ruby will be my maid of honor, and Granny is going to cater, and Scheherazade is going to make my dress, and Rhiannon is going to sing and play guitar, and I'm hoping my father will provide the flowers."

"Sounds wonderful! Who's going to officiate?"

Belle suddenly opens and closes and opens her mouth, then slowly shrugs. "We haven't thought about that. There's no clergy in Storybrooke—"

"Thanks to Regina," I add. "She thought it would undermine her power."

"There's no justice of the peace—"

"Thanks to Regina. Same reason."

"Who usually performs the weddings here?" Belle frowns.

"No one. For twenty-eight years, we were all stuck in that time loop. No marriages, no births, no birthdays, no deaths, until Emma came to town."

"I don't know the laws of this land. Back in our old world, it was either a holy man or a ruler. Who would have the authority here to perform a wedding?"

I have to refer to the movies and books I've seen since coming here. "Well, I know a ship's captain can."

"_Hook?!_" Belle yelps.

"Right, right. Maybe the mayor—

"Except we don't have one right now."

"I think we're going to have to improvise, Belle." That's the best I can come up with. "The closest thing we have to a mayor is David."

"No," she dismisses that. "Rumple will never go for that. He has a hard enough time accepting the fact that he has to share grandfatherhood with David."

"The closest thing we have to clergy is the Reverend Mother." I wince in expectation.

And she doesn't let me down. Her eyes widen in horror. "The Blue Fairy?! Absolutely, positively, unequivocally no way! Rumple is doing his best to mend fences, but that's a bridge too far!"

"Yeah." I can't help but smile a little, realizing I'll have plenty of work ahead of me as Gold begins repairing his broken relationships amongst the townsfolk. "Well, with Regina gone—" and Belle and I both superstitiously utter a "thank the gods"—"the only remaining queen is Snow."

Belle brightens and gets a faraway look in her eye. "Yes, I can see that. . . Rumple would accept for that, even if it means we have to invite David."

That settled, we both sit back in relief, until Belle suddenly sits bolt upright. "Sweet heavens above, I just realized something."

"That you're marrying the most powerful sorcerer in the world? That you're going to be the stepmother of a man who's ten times your age?" I guess.

She waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, I can deal with all that."

"So what's wrong?"

"I'm going to be spending the rest of my life in pink house!"


End file.
